


Find A Way To Live On

by LitheLies



Series: Finding Ways [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Horcruxes, POV Hermione Granger, Post-War, Resurrection Stone, Slow Burn, Soul-Searching, Unrequited Love, watch as the gifted student flounders because look life is like that sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-01-16 22:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 48
Words: 195,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitheLies/pseuds/LitheLies
Summary: As the war retreats into her memory and the new world forms ahead of her, she cannot seem to move forward. It doesn't feel right to act as if everything is fixed, and that the problems from before vanished with Voldemort. Because he did vanish -- didn't he?What if The Brightest Witch of Her Age is the flame that went out too soon; bright for the sake of brightness, clever for the sake of cleverness. Everything is too easy and too difficult, all at once, and she just wants -- well, whatdoesshe want?It's been years since she's allowed herself such a thought.(AU Slowburn Eighth year, Dramione.)





	1. it has a ring to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   


> _**August 18th, 1998. later than one should be out.** _

Apparation proved to be more difficult when angry, but it was also that much more satisfying.

The heat clung to Hermione's cheeks, raw from her tears and red from how she'd blush when she was particularly angry. She hurried through the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, with her coin purse, her wand and little else.

In her haste to escape, she'd Apparated in front of Flourish and Blotts. She supposed that made sense. It was a place of security, one that she visited with as often as she could. She had missed books and reading and -- it was late. Far later than she realized, as the Burrow sat more firmly west. It had been light when she'd left, and she'd arrived in the dark.

The lights in the shop weren't on, and the streets were quiet. It was late, later than she ever meant to be out, but she was an adult after all.

She could go wherever she damn well pleased.

She crumpled the article in her fist. It relieved some of her anger, as if it were really Ron's face rather than a photo in the Prophet. He deserved it, given he was the root of her midnight grief.

Hermione arrived at the Leaky Cauldron after some quick detours. She had roamed these streets every year, up until her sixth year. She didn’t want to think about Gringotts, or how suffocated she felt in the streets during the midday rush.

Arrogance made her ill, to think she was _above_ the masses, but it wasn’t that.

It was the way people spoke behind their hands about her, or how they’d watch her walk around. She had endured it at first, in kindness and modesty. She understood _why_.

She was the Golden Girl, the one who had helped The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice to take down Voldemort. And if you squinted, it could be so simple.

It discounted dozens of brave witches and wizards, but sure, close enough. She was so clever, she was so brilliant, she was going to do great things, she was so in love with Ron, she was going to be with him forever, she, she, she!

Honestly, who was she.

“I’d like a room,” she shoved the mass of her hair over her shoulder, curls more unruly than usual. Magic seemed to course from her scalp outwards, with how she bristled.

“That’d be ten sickles a night,” the oily man behind the counter explained, a rag in one hand and a rat on his shoulder.

“I’ll need it for… Two weeks,” she brushed at loose strands, that tickled her forehead.

He ran his tongue between his lips, this way and that. It wasn’t so difficult a request, was it? “Ain’t you that girl? That girl who’s friends with Harry Potter?”

Hermione smiled through her mental math, as she slid across nine Galleons. It should have been eight Galleons and a few sickles, but she just wanted this to be over.

“No, no, it’s on the house! You’s a hero, you are,” he boomed with laughter, as he pushed the coins back to her. “We can put up a picture, or put a sign on the room you stayed in, that’ll make people plenty happy.“

Hermione begged with her eyes, to be out of the conversation, and for him to please just take the money instead.

“Food’s extra, but,” he slapped a runestone down, attached to a small iron key. “Enjoy.”

A snort sounded from a booth nearby, to which Hermione cast a nasty look. She hadn’t meant to, but her whole night was full of things she’d not meant to do. She plucked the runestone from the counter and left the coins.

“I appreciate your generosity, but I don’t need a free room, and I especially don’t want you to put my picture in that room,” she spoke, quick and low. “Thank you, but, it’s not necessary.”

She rushed past the man behind the counter, with the runestone inlay enough information to find her room. Whoever had laughed at her exchange with the innkeeper could sod off, as far as she was concerned.

As she ascended the stairs, she could see the night sky was now an inky purple. Stars were duller here by nature, but once she entered her room, she’d have the enchantments that came with Diagon Alley facing view.

They’d actually fought against the industrialization of London, given astronomers moved out of the cities in droves to have a better perspective of the night skies. Light pollution and smog had ruined many magical practices, and unofficial settlements began to pop up around Cornwall and Hampshire.

The Ministry instated a dome-like seeing window above Diagon Alley, to enhance the sky so that people would stay. Her mind spun with the names, facts and figures around this magical sky, as she'd wondered about it when she'd first had dinner in the alley.

She had to _know_, you see.

Trivia calmed her down, and she needed that now. She hadn’t brought anything with her, but she could return to the Burrow tomorrow to collect her trunks. She had little clothes, and few belongings really. She’d lost so much in the war and failed to recoup it.

Hermione found her room, with the bindrune she’d found etched into her runestone. She squinted at it in the dark, _uruz_ spoked in the middle, double, and then a double-sided _algiz_. Strength, determination, protection and sanctuary...

The cogs in her head turned, as quick as lightning.

_Protection against anger._

She cast a look behind her, her teeth grit. She turned the stone over between her fingers, to see an angular _9_.

“Why not just say it’s nine,” she fumed. “Making me decipher Gemanic runes that aren’t even _relevant _…”

Hermione burst into her room, ungracious as she flopped to the bed. It was then she remembered the article, scrunched within her palm to a sweaty, sordid mush. She let it roll onto the bed, her fingers stained with the ink.

As she lay on the four-poster bed, in the dark of a quiet room, she felt serene. It felt like when she’d sneak back into the girls’ dormitory at Hogwarts after the others had fallen asleep.

Or like when she’d sneak out to cry on her own, away from Harry, away from their tent.

How mad she was at Ron.

How mad she was _now_ at Ron, steelier than when she’d first Apparated away from the Burrow. It was somehow worse, that the anger clung to her ribs and made her breath catch in her throat.

Even worse, she’d stayed here once with her parents, who’d vowed to never stay here again. They enjoyed it, for how excited Hermione had been to be around real wizards, to see how they could stir their tea with a flick of their wand, or speak with portraits of long-dead ancestors.

They didn’t see the magic as she did. It was uncontrollable and immense. Even their dresser held them with contempt, as it spat the clothes out that it disliked.

(Which happened to be _all_ their clothes except for one leather shoe and a tie.)

It left Hermione’s clothes alone.

They had been nervous and anxious, she realized now. They had been afraid for so long, as they watched their daughter vanish to this faraway place, and come back brighter and more scarred each year.

At least they weren’t here now, her hand at her forearm, her nails dug through the fabric.

The article unfurled, as her eyes drifted shut. She’d cried at some point, between being awake and asleep.

But the article remained, framed next to a twinkling-eyed Ron who had a huge ring in hand. He had a winning smile, one that would have made her eager to be on the other side of, to be the reason for it.

And she was, in a sense.

_“Hermione’s the one for me! Think she’ll say yes?” _

* * *

> _**August 19th, 1998; early enough to arrive unannounced, without feeling too bad about it.** _

“No.”

“You can’t be… Hermione, it’s Rita Seeker,” Ron hovered in the doorway of Ginny’s bedroom. The early morning sun poured through the cracks of her Holy Harpies posters. They were tacked on with beautiful tapes, surrounded by tiny moving photos of Ginny and her friends. 

“The photo hardly lied.”

“Gin, back me up here.”

Ginny tongued her cheek and shook her head, her arms crossed on the bed in front of her. She had her Prefect badge in front of her, which she twiddled between her fingers.

“You shouldn’t be on your own, Hermione,” Ron rolled his eyes, as if it were obvious.

“Oh?” Hermione squeaked, as she slammed her trunk shut. “Another thing I shouldn’t do, and yet I’m doing with ease!”

“Hogwarts is… That’s just a waste of time for you at this point.” Ron threaded his fingers through his bangs, to sweep them away from the sweat of his brow.

“Hogwarts is settled, as is my staying at the Leaky Cauldron until term begins.” She insisted on the Muggle way, as she folded a few lumpy sweaters that wouldn’t be needed. “Ginny, you’ll have to visit.”

“Happy to,” Ginny smiled up at Hermione, with no acknowledgment towards Ron.

”Everything I own is from last year, and… I need a fresh start on things.”

“What things?” Ron cut in.

“Everything.” Hermione felt her skin itch.

“I got rid of a lot of my stuff from my first year of Hogwarts, after that _diary_ shite,” Ginny hummed.

Quiet settled between the three of them, wherein they could hear Mrs. Weasley as she shouted at some chickens. Their collective nerves settled as the shouts stopped and silence returned.

“Only ‘cause of that prize money,” she tossed her long braided pigtail, her cheek pressed against her shoulder. “Mum bought me a new uniform, new knickers, shoes, all of it.”

Hermione smiled, her first real smile that she could recall.

“It helps you let go of it, for some people.” Ginny plucked her Prefect badge up, to twirl it in the light.

Ron mumbled something, about how he liked her lumpy sweaters; about how she was perfect, right now, as she was.

“Why did you have that ring, Ron?” Hermione withdrew her beaded purse from her satchel, the patched over one from school.

“I wanted to buy my girlfriend some jewelry, that’s all,” Ron snarled. “You’re impossible, Hermione.”

“I don’t know if rings are of the same symbolic importance in the Wizarding world, but a ring is -- it’s quite a big thing,” Hermione spoke, clear and hard. She dropped several books into the beaded purse. “You know I don’t wear jewelry, I never have.”

“Forget it.” Ron’s ears turned red and he threw his hands into the air. “I’m the worst boyfriend in the world, for wanting to buy my girlfriend something nice -- “

“Don’t do that,” Hermione shoved some socks into her beaded purse. She piled in the lumpy sweaters next. “Something nice would be a new quill, or -- or a book I mentioned wanting -- “

“Oh, a book! As if you don’t have a thousand. I wanted it to be special.”

“Books can be special! I even told you I wanted the updated version of _Magical Theory_ by Aldabert Waffling, which -- “

“Which is a first year book, and you’re almost nineteen.” He waved a hand at her, at the purse in her hands. “Don’t you have a copy of that somewhere in there?”

“_Which_ I was included as a contributor, due to some corrections I discussed with the publisher.” Her voice cracked. “I told you about this, I _told_ you -- “

Ginny had melted into the bed, her face buried in the patchwork blanket beneath her. “Stop fighting, please,” she groaned, deep and desperate.

“Well, you were going off to _ Hogwarts_, and I thought it’d be nice, to have something to remember me by.” Ron pushed off the doorframe, his hands now deep in his pockets.

“You told Rita Seeker you wanted to propose, after we’d been dating, what, two months?” Hermione raked her fingers through her hair, to wad it up into a messy bun. She pulled her wand out of her pocket and levitated her trunk into her purse with ease.

There wouldn’t be any other way to fit the trunk otherwise.

“It was a joke.”

Harry rounded the corner, and collided with Ron.

“Oh, er, I didn’t realize you’d come back Hermione.”

“She’s not,” Ginny and Ron said in unison.

Harry shot Hermione a look, no edge to his green eyes. The corner of his lips twitched, as if to stamp the questions back.

“I’ll be at the Leaky Cauldron, room nine. You’re welcome to visit,” Hermione tucked her wand away, her gaze fixed on the floor in front of her.

“Will do,” Harry smiled, and moved so that Ron could get past him. He leaned in the doorway, for a moment, before he moved in to sit by Ginny. Hermione’s jaw clenched and unclenched, as she debated her reaction.

“I’m sorry, you two.”

“It’s fine,” Harry clasped his hands between his knees. “Always happens with you two, doubted that’d change because you started dating.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, to meet Harry’s mortified gaze.

“I’m sure he’ll come around.”

“I don’t think _he’s_ the problem,” Hermione exhaled. “I don’t want the life he wants, or, I’m not ready for that life, yet.”

“Maybe one day though,” Harry shrugged. 

“Or not, and I’ll finally have Hermione all to myself,” Ginny shot Hermione a rakish smile, complete with a waggle of her eyebrow.

Hermione couldn’t stop the peel of laughter at that, or how Harry faked a sob.

They could have been happy, if she could just... 

Be happy.

Live life.

Let things happen.

But none of that sounded right, not as saw herself out of the Burrow in silence. The house was coated in oranges and browns. No surface was bare, with photos all the way down the stairs.

She lingered on a photo of Fred and George, both dressed as Muggle pirates. She noticed they had a tiny Ron held hostage, with rubber chickens. Even in the tiny photo, she could see his ears had turned red and the same long-nosed frown.

She pushed onwards. There were brass pots and faded gold embellishments on the stairs. She could see the love tucked into every corner of this house, earnest and dependable.

Why did she feel like an intruder here?

She passed Mrs. Weasley, and no words were exchanged.

Suffice to say, she didn’t expect a sweater this year.

…

Hermione had never decorated at Hogwarts, and she’d not done much at her home -- but, the dreary room within the Leaky Cauldron set her on edge. She used _Lumos Filum_ to string some lights around each bed post, and she had set down some books to read on the desk by the window.

She also bought a large plush blanket. Blue, she decided. A light, bright blue one that her hand sunk into.

Crookshanks would like it, if…

He’d come back to the Burrow, one day. Mrs. Weasley would take care of him, or Ginny would. Maybe they’d send her an owl, to let her know he’d turned up safe. It’d been a year, though, and she held onto that small hope.

She didn’t want posters. The lights and books were enough, as was the blanket. She unpacked her favorite mug from her purse, and set it on the table.

For a split second, she wondered if she could stay here, indefinitely.

She could go to the Ministry, to move on, to get an apartment.

Her stomach lurched, at the thought of an incomplete schooling record. She’d always thought she’d finish high school at the very least, if not university.

Hermione snatched up a caramel trench coat and slipped on some sneakers. She needed to get out of this room, and out into the world. She’d be back at school in two weeks, and she’d put off her supplies long enough.

Perhaps she could secure a copy of the updated _Magical Theory_edition she’d received a mention in.

She tromped down the stairs and out of the Leaky Cauldron. She nodded at the innkeeper, Tom, that was his name. He seemed to have relaxed since her arrival the night before.

He’d not mentioned her picture being hung in the room again, at least.

The wall split without hesitation after she’d tapped the pattern.

Diagon Alley hummed with life, dozens of witches and wizards at every store along the cobblestone streets ahead. There was a grace area, where people left it clear. She walked through the arch as it closed, and dug into her pocket for her supplies list.

The only elements she wanted to secure today were her books. Ingredients could be left until Ginny came around, or at least closer to when she left for school. She didn’t have any interest in potion brewing as a hobby, not right now.

Uniforms, cauldrons, scales… She had it all. She’d done this before, six times, she was ready.

She was _excited_, she told herself.

The path to Flourish and Blotts was shamefully familiar. She could have covered the path with her eyes closed, down to the paces required. Twenty-seven paces ahead, three to the right, then you ducked, and pivoted clockwise ninety degrees. 

(There was a sign that hung low, with a title too long for her to recall.)

No one had noticed her, a fact she felt embarrassed by. She shouldn’t expect to be recognized, and she shouldn’t be thankful to go unrecognized. The whole celebrity _thing _caused her stomach to roil, nervous energy settled low in her stomach.

Except, if in the pursuit of helping others. She would reduce herself to a name and a smile in the interest of assisting others, but such a cause failed to exist. Perhaps House Elves…

If Rita Seeker came within twenty paces of her, to ask about the ring, she’d shriek about the liberation of House Elves.

Hermione wandered the aisles of Flourish and Blotts, as she drank up the smell of leather and parchment. She resisted the urge to stick her face into the gap of one shelf, though she did _seriously_ debate it for a moment.

Her hand remained on the shelf, her thumb against the lacquered oak and a loose bookmark tassel.

“Excuse me, you shouldn’t touch books that you don’t wish to purchase.” 

Hermione flinched away from the shelf as if it had burned her. She turned to apologize, when she saw the sleek features of Draco Malfoy.

“How do you know I wasn’t about to purchase a book on,” she yanked the tassel and the book followed. “_A Comprehensive Guide To Giant Mating Migration Patterns_.”

Malfoy cracked a genuine smile as she stuffed the book under her arm.

“Giants are,” Hermione began, her fingers interlocked in front of her, anxiety higher than her blood pressure. “A very misunderstood group of magical beings. If we begin to understand their habits, their processes, we could stand to improve our relations with them -- socio-politically, that is.”

There was something broken in how Malfoy looked at her. It was as if he couldn’t process her being real, or as if he saw something else in her place. He looked past her, not into her eyes, never at her face.

The feeling was mutual, as she felt her tongue too heavy to speak.

He hung in the aisle like a fragmented mirror, cut into three parts; a sliver of a Death Eater on the battlefield; a sliver of a prisoner in the Malfoy Manor drawing-room with deep purple bags; a peer several tables away in the Library with a quill between his lips.

“Pity for Weasley,” he flexed his hand, the left one, before he shoved it into his trouser pocket. “If you’re finally going to make your move on Hagrid, he’ll probably off himself. I’m willing to bet he spent the last of his money on that ring.”

“How _dare_ you -- “

Draco arched a brow, as he looked her over. His eyes snagged at her hands, which she hurried to hide.

Hermione formed consonants but no words, a heat wrapped around her throat and up to her jaw.

“Ah, I hope they’ll give him his Galleons back.” His tongue peeked between his lips, his neck strained as he tried not to laugh.

“Shut _up_.”

“Now Granger, ten Galleons _can_ be a lot to people like him.” The brief, genuine smile was shattered by a smirk, Slytherin to the core. His eyes twinkled as he laughed, his teeth fang-like around his cackles.

Oh, how Hermione wished she had countered that. She wanted to snipe back at him, cruel words to match his cruel heart, but he’d pivoted and continued along the aisle. She was slammed back into her body, the weight of his presence upon her.

She wanted to ask what his father had given the Wizengamot, to secure his freedom. Or to ask him if his mother was okay, as she’d done so much for the Wizarding world.

She wanted to ask if he was okay.

Maybe, he’d ask her the same thing back.

Instead, she bought her school books in quiet contemplation, as well as the book on how giants moved and mated. She’d half-forgotten it had been under her arm.

In her misery and woes, she’d not thought of Malfoy. She had offered to assist with the Malfoy trials, though she went unneeded. There were testimonies beyond hers that covered far more.

And after he’d stopped being mentioned in the papers, Death Eaters began to arrive in custody at a remarkable rate. She worried her lips from side to side, her thumb pressed to her ring finger as she worried an imaginary ring.

She had been wrapped up with Ron, she supposed. He had kept her away from the newspapers, in the interest of her relaxation. Hermione suspected he wanted to make out, which had happened a handful of times.

Hermione dug through old copies of the Daily Prophet once she’d dropped off her books in her room at the Leaky Cauldron. She settled into a corner booth, one leg curled up and a peppermint tea.

_Coffee’s bad for your teeth_, her parents parroted in the back of her mind.

She proceeded to have three coffees in her search for further information on the Malfoy family trials. She felt that she’d missed something in the months that had followed their arrests.

She was curious, that was all. They had survived Voldemort from the other side, a feat not many had managed. And through that, they’d found a way to live on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are super appreciated!


	2. boy friends and boyfriends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _ **August 19th, 1998. Late.** _

The day had long since turned to night as Hermione worked through each of the outdated newspapers she’d collected. The Leaky Cauldron had filled and emptied, as families bustled through and couples giggled all over one another.

Hermione downed the dregs of her peppermint tea, her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth. Her gaze flitted between the _ Daily Prophet _ articles and those who cackled and whined at the tables nearby. 

It was loud, but in truth, the sound helped her focus. It reminded her of Hogwarts or the Burrow, and she needed that familiarity to work.

The silence caused her mind to stick to unpleasant memories.

She scribbled a mustache onto a photo of a young Tom Riddle, as part of some ‘farewell Dark Lord’ piece which came across as pandering. She added a monocle and a pair of horns, until she’d scratched his entire face out.

“Hey, you need anything?” 

“Hm?”

It was the waitress, the one who had spoken with Tom behind the bar. She hadn’t any idea who she was, though there was every chance they’d seen each other at school. She must have been older than Hermione by a few years, but people always seemed to recognize her anyway.

_ That’s Potter’s friend, isn’t it? _

“Another peppermint tea,” Hermione smiled at the waitress. “Please.”

“You’re gonna turn into a peppermint soon, darling.” The pale witch curled her fingers tighter around her wooden tray. She clinked as she walked away, a swish to her hips and a lightness to her step.

Despite the unwelcoming nature of the Leaky Cauldron, she was like a beam of sunlight. She must’ve been a Hufflepuff, if Hermione had to guess.

Hermione felt her posture ease now that Tom had left. He’d never done anything wrong by her, aside from their that first night where he’d planned to use her for publicity. That note had struck her deep, and remained with her.

She ruffled the newspaper with one hand, while her other hand rested on her chin. It was from June, and held the first mention she’d found of the Malfoys, and it was their arrest. Not that they were being hunted for, no wanted posters, no mentions…

They vanished, and then they popped back up, at their own pace.

A whole _ month _ after the Battle of Hogwarts.

Before the world turned to ashes and the Death Eaters took their devastating stranglehold, the Malfoys cameoed within the Daily Prophet social sections, or in politics, almost weekly.

It never got specific about the family themselves, only their projects were mentioned. For example, Narcissa had once assumed a head position at a gallery restoration project, wherein a collection of damaged relics from 16th century France had been rescued from a Muggle hoarder.

It was spoken about like it was a charity event when really it was another piece of pureblood propaganda. Every mention of the poor, destroyed art was steeped in Muggle disparaging, about how negligent they were, how they corrupted all beautiful things.

Insidious, really.

Then there was Lucius, wedged between politicians like a popcorn kernel you couldn’t wiggle from your gum. He smirked from beside Fudge, or Scrimgeour and even Umbridge. She felt her stomach fester when she saw the photos where Lucius seemed to flirt with the toady woman, with how he’d dip his chin and whisper in her ear.

The Malfoy _ charm_, she conceded. It wrapped around the unwitting, and choked them out of their sense of duty. Anyone could be bought, with the right pressure, the right angle.

Oh, not to mention the labor exploitation, theft, abuse of power, blackmail, battery… 

But there had to be some element of charm to it, to have secured freedom. Someone had bent to their whims, or fallen for a trick.

“Your tea, hun,” the waitress set the cup down gently, with the handle angled just right. Hermione set her hand on the porcelain, the warmth a way to ground herself in the sensory.

“Doing some light reading?”

“I’m a huge fan of the crosswords.” Hermione tried to keep her tone level, but a smile split her serious expression and her cover was blown. “Yes, I’m just keeping track of the ah… Trials.”

“Makes sense, wanting to see the bad guys get locked up.” The waitress hovered, but for once Hermione didn’t mind.

“They’re not all _ bad_, some were coerced, others were manipulated.” She dipped, to burn the words out of her throat. “There’s more than good or bad in all this.” She looked up, expectant as if she wanted to debate the point further.

Instead, she was met with a pretty laugh and a wave of her hand. “Trust you to have the right answer, even out of class.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t think we talked, at school, but I was in your year.” She paused, a warm smile shot through the dark. “I’m Emily. You lent me a quill one time, which I never got back to you, sorry...”

“You were a Hufflepuff though, right?” Hermione asked, curious as she dipped her head forward. “I feel like I remember you in yellow.”

“Yep! A Fawley Hufflepuff, through and through!” She grinned, good-natured despite the suffocating atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione nodded, pleased she’d remembered correctly.

“Really hope they’ll let me have my dorm room back. I left a good pair of stockings there. They had little bows on the backs of the ankles, that could tie themselves into different shapes. Oh, I miss them -- ”

“Oh, are you going back to study for your eighth year?”

“Of course!” She nodded, once, deep and proud. “I didn’t know what I’d do, since last year, I couldn’t _ be _ there -- Tom let me work here, cleaning, but… Are you going back to study? You must be, it’s _ you_,” she chided. “You and your Gryffindor _ boys _?”

“Just me, I’m afraid.” Hermione tried not to sound annoyed and failed. “I’m Hermione, by the way. I guess that went without saying.”

“Oh, sorry, I know your name, who doesn’t?” Emily backtracked, her cheeks pink and her black bob pin-straight. She looked like some funhouse mirror version of Pansy Parkinson, filled with sunshine instead of venom. “I just meant your boys, like your friends, not your _boyfriends_.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I didn’t mean like, the Skeeter kind of… I’m sorry.” Her gaze trailed across the table, to the sprawl of papers that Hermione had spent her day pouring over.

Hermione raised a brow, unsure what she meant to apologize for. They weren’t her _ boys_, but she understood the sentiment. She gathered the papers into a neater pile, her brow raised. “You can sit, if you like.”

“Oh, no, I can’t, work, but you enjoy your tea. Let me know if you need anything.” Emily excused herself, her jaw set. She spoke like a hummingbird, too many thoughts and all too quick.

The flash of her tense profile reminded Hermione of a sunny afternoon in second year. Hermione watched as Emily stepped behind the bar, to clean away the dinner rush. She wasn’t using magic, whether unable or unwilling.

It clicked for her then, when she’d seen a Hufflepuff girl across the courtyard with wild brown curls. It was like a mirror she'd not known she'd been looking for. Everyone else had sweet waves or straight ends. The girl had the same wildfire atop her head, auburn in the light, brown in the shade. She had been so struck by Emily, to see another girl with unruly hair...

But Emily looked so pretty, carefree. Hermione looked -- it didn't matter how she looked.

Malfoy had been with her, she remembered. He had his hand on her shoulder, and a genuine smile on his face. They laughed together, about something Hermione would never know of, as she returned her attention to her library book.

Hermione and Emily had smiled at one another a few times over the years, but never spoken. There was no chance to, and no reason to. Hermione tended to avoid other girls, afraid of how pretty they were, and how cruel they could be.

Maybe Emily had tried back then, as she reassured Harry about the Heir of Slytherin but chastised him for what he’d done to Mrs. Norris.

Hermione watched the strange Hufflepuff girl, who had the enthusiasm of Ginny with the lightness of Luna. She tapped her chin, as if in search of why she’d bothered to speak with her; why had Emily wanted to speak to her?

Why now?

Emily wore her hair in a tight bun fourth year after Pansy set fire to the ends. By their fifth year, Emily had her hair lopped into a bob, pin-straight. Just like it was now, though it was a blue-black rather than warm brown.

Strange, the things one could remember.

When Emily disappeared into the backroom of the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione found her curiosity had faded for now.

Hermione found the radio silence on Malfoy family eerie. If Hermione had to guess, she'd say that there was pressure within to keep the stories about them to a minimum. She wouldn't be surprised if Lucius threw money at the paper to keep their names away from the ink.

Despite all the controversy, all the potential media coverage, the Malfoy family was mentioned a grand total of _three_ times since May.

The first mention was that they’d been arrested.

A month later, they’d been given a full pardon.

The final mention clarified that Lucius would be under house arrest, given insufficient wards at Azkaban. He wouldn't be able to leave his home, but he wasn't in _jail_...

He was in his luxurious estate, with his wife and son. He was in the midst of his wealth, with Galleons to pat away his crocodile tears.

Narcissa was pardoned of all suspicions, no stipulations. Draco went unmentioned.

Hermione’s gaze raked through the pages. She hadn’t been able to get all the copies of the Prophet, but stories tended to sprawl across several days when it came to trials. The Malfoy family wasn’t even given a public trial date or any ancillary information.

No accusations, aside from ‘suspected to have conspired alongside Dark Wizards’.

As if their property hadn’t become a de facto Death Eaters hub, where even Voldemort himself had set up a Bed and Breakfast for his most devoted and most reviled.

Hermione dragged her index finger down the article, as she took note of several Ministry officials who had been brought on to assess the case.

She noted down the name _ Fawley_, which Emily had given her before. That, too, struck her as familiar though she couldn’t place why.

Or, if it even mattered at all.

Maybe she needed _ this_.

* * *

> _**August 25th, 1998. Please time, slow down.** _

The first week at the Leaky Cauldron Hermione spent alone, immersed in unread books. An extensive catalog had formed over the past year, in addition to the books she had picked up for school. She had read them through twice; once to better understand the full context of the information, then a second time with a critical eye.

Quills were fine but Hermione preferred a ballpoint pen and a notepad during this stage. She didn’t have to worry about the ink smearing, or the paper rolling around. Instead, it was a shorthand scrawl of questions for her teachers.

And, for the first time that week, her mind wandered and her eyes drifted to the window. She steepled her hands beneath her chin, to regard the dull afternoon sun outside.

She decided that she had done enough practical research.

She pushed her schoolwork aside, to instead pull out her…

Her _research_.

She had snipped several articles out of the Prophet, with a photo of Lucius Malfoy wrapped up in chains. Several names stood out to her. Strauss, a minister who’d survived through Fudge’s time in the Ministry, as well as Scrimgeour and Thicknesse…

And now, to Kingsley.

He, along with several other Wizegamont officials had been seen in the past few years in talks with Lucius. She scribbled out a note, to send through to Kingsley, to suggest that he look further into the nature of Strauss and his relationship with the Malfoy family.

She had no tangible information aside from a gut instinct, and she wrapped up her note to Kingsley (which she had encoded for the sake of rudimentary interference). She included another note, about how she struggled with the puzzle, and she needed help.

A cover, for a cover.

She was exhausted by her own design.

With the letter in her satchel and her coin purse tossed in after it, she headed downstairs. It had been a week, and she'd agreed to go shopping for school supplies... 

Her chest crumpled and exploded at once, as she saw Ginny, Harry, and Ron. She'd not even made it all the way down the stairs before Ginny was on her, their heights evened out as Ginny was one step lower than her.

“I convinced mum to let us come alone,” Ginny mumbled against Hermione’s cheek, as they hugged away their week apart.

“I wouldn’t have minded if she came,” Hermione smiled into Ginny’s sleek red hair.

“I would have.” Ginny squeezed her a little too tight and picked her up a few inches. She set her back down, a half-cocked smile as she looked around the inn.

“Hey Hermione,” Harry wiggled his fingers at her, his arms raised. “How many books have you read this week, hm?”

“All of them,” she said, conspiratory. “Every single one.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” He had a nice denim jacket on, lined with wool and scuffed black jeans. It was good to see that he was healthy. Mrs. Weasley seemed to be feeding him up and that he'd refreshed his wardrobe.

She still had to do that, she reminded herself.

She hugged Ron, too, though it wasn’t as long as the others. In truth, Hermione didn’t think they were that affectionate as a group of friends. They hugged when appropriate. She tried not to break down the logistics of appropriate hug durations.

(It was twenty seconds, if familiar with the other person, and a minimum of three if unfamiliar. Ideally no more than five seconds, however, as it was too much.)

(She wished she hadn’t had to look that up, and that it hadn’t imprinted onto her brain like every other fact she learned. Especially as it was a social science, and a study, with a difficult hypothesis to test. Human emotion is so impossible to catalog in an empirical sense-- )

“Run into anyone? You must have.”

“Nah, twenty Knuts says she’s been in her room all day, reading.”

Hermione pointed a finger at Harry, her lips squeezed into a fine point. “I went out for tea, and to look at the pet store, so _ ha_.” She paused, to head down the last few stair steps. She brushed at sweater, which had ridden up from all the hugs. “And, I had the most _ mortifying _ encounter at the book store.”

“Did someone find fixing your knickers.” Ginny raised her hand, her fingers wiggling. “‘Cause that happens, worst of all after Quidditch, your knickers just -- whoop!”

Ron had swatted her hands down, disgust etched into his face.

“I ran into Malfoy, actually.” Hermione grinned through her discomfort, as she relayed her run-in with Draco at Flourish and Blotts. 

With _ Malfoy_, rather.

Not _ Draco_.

Never Draco.

If he refused to call her by her first name, she would afford him the same treatment; equality, and all that.

“Why did you _ buy _ it?” Ginny gawked. “You could have slapped the book into his hands, and told him he’d finally get some goodies from a girl who isn’t half-snake.”

Hermione panicked as she tried to work out where to look, how to hold herself, her breathing hiked and her eyes wild. “I don’t even know what to say to that, Ginny.”

“Have you seen Parkinson, she’s all,” Ginny mimicked one of those marketing tools outside a car dealership. The tall men with billowing arms and bodies. She did use one hand to push her nose back, to mimic the pug-nose Pansy had.

“Amazing impression, Gin,” Harry deadpanned, as he looked anywhere except for her girlfriend.

“How’s your dragon tattoo, hm?” She sidled over to Harry, to throw her arms around him, her body like a jellyfish.

“Alright, calm down, a man can only take so much before lunch,” Ron hissed, his hands flapped at Ginny. “You’ve hit your lifetime limit.”

Harry couldn’t stop laughing, as his girlfriend ghosted around him like a moth to a lightbulb.

“What? This isn’t that bad,” Ginny wiggled her shoulders, now behind Harry. “Love me!”

“I do, please, I bruise easily.”

“I know.” Ginny and Harry laughed, and Hermione wished to be alone all over again. She the scowl form Ron’s face, which was her cue to move the group.

“I’m gonna be so happy when you go back to school,” Ron swatted at his sister again, but she dodged each hit. “I’ll have my best mate back.”

“Let’s go get our supplies,” Hermione smiled at the three of them, kicked back to nostalgia, as if this moment weren’t real.

Ginny continued to dance after Harry, not as intense as before, but still, more than Ron could handle. Hermione latched onto his arm, to calm him down, her cheek against his upper arm.

He fizzled in the instant, his ears red and his eyes averted.

* * *

It took no time at all to secure Ginny’s books. Harry offered to pay, but Ginny wouldn’t allow it. Hermione watched them argue, their hands full of coins and their faces equally red.

No anger, more embarrassment, as they navigated the reality of how rich Harry truly was.

It never came up in the past, but Harry’s father had come from an exceptionally wealthy family, and most of his extended family had been wiped out. The money trickled together until it swelled within his vault at Gringotts. That wasn't even with the money he'd inherited from Sirius Black, which was still under negotiation between himself and a goblin named Hobbuck.

He’d told Hermione how much it was, anxious and in disbelief. He'd needed her help, with the paperwork, and with the money at large. She hadn’t asked, but he was eighteen, like her. It was more money than any of them knew what to do with, comparable to the fortune the Malfoys had.

Hermione had only asked, so she could help more efficiently. They were just numbers to her, abstract and fun to play with.

Ginny and Ron hadn’t wanted to know, raised on pride and self-sufficiency.

Her fingertips skimmed the embossed title, a catalog of werewolf experienced through the early eighteenth century. It was compiled by Trunchible Fortsycthe, a man who would go on to wander in the forest during a full moon in the hopes that a lycan would take a liking to him.

He'd died shortly after the book had been published, mauled by an animal in the night.

"Ready to go," Ginny bounced over, with Harry red-cheeked by her side. Hermione ignored the fact that Ginny had gone from third-hand books to a brand new set, in the time she’d spent browsing the stacks.

Ginny gave her a weak smile, as if she’d done something wrong.

“Books, done, next would be… Are you doing Potions?” Hermione ran her finger down the list, her index finger and thumb rubbed together.

“No, but I could use a few things from there.” She did her best to sound airy.

Harry tripped on a stack of books, as he stared at Ginny.

They exchanged a heated look, which Hermione felt she shouldn't have seen. Hermione narrowed her eyes, not called the Brightest Witch of her Age for no reason.

“Ron, you go with Harry to secure us a table at Cibus Cafe,” Hermione waved for them to take Ginny’s books. “I only need a seventh-year set which they will have prepared. It’ll take no time.”

“If it’s gonna take no time, why not just stick together?”

“It’s lunchtime,” Harry waved a hand towards the cafe, which had no empty tables outside.

"So?" Ron moved towards the potions store they'd usually go to.

“C-Chances are, we’ll have to wait anyway…” He looked to Hermione as if to plead for her to -- to what? She didn’t know exactly, but there was a plea behind his gaze. "If we wait there, they'll be done, and we'll have a table!"

“I suppose.” Ron pointed at Hermione, his lips pursed tight together. “I’m getting food as soon as I sit down, so you better be quick. No detours with Malfoy about -- mating _ stuff_.”

“I promise,” Hermione rolled her eyes, as she gave Ron a polite smile.

“But if he does turn up, just sock him again, just,” he mimed a slap. “Get ‘im.”

“Okay, thank you, Ron,” Hermione pivoted, with Ginny at her elbow.

Harry and Ron headed off for the bakery that served all manner of pastries, pasties, and pies. Hermione already knew what she’d order when she sat down, and in truth, they _ would _be quick.

“Don’t do it Hermione.”

“Don’t do what.” Hermione fought down a smile, as Ginny shoved her shoulder. It wasn’t hard, but it showed how Ginny had grown up. So many boys, so much _ touching_.

“You know what.”

“I think it’s responsible, to be safe.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to trust the scrawls in the girls bathroom on the fifth floor.” Ginny labored her head to the side, a conspiratorial tilt to her brow and a purse to her lips.

“Pardon?”

Ginny leaned in, her hand cupped by Hermione’s ear. “_Fetus deletus_.”

“That’s horrible!” Hermione terrified the animals outside of the Magical Menagerie as they passed it, her laugh so high and loud. “Awful!” It took them the walk to the potions store to calm down, and for Hermione to stop her blushing.

This was as close as Hermione had ever gotten to girl talk, and it had made her light headed and terrified.

“I mean it, though.” Hermione exhaled, resolute. “It’s nice if that’s what you both want, and I think it’s…”

“Hm?”

“Is that why you didn’t want your mother here?” Hermione tipped her head, as she waited for the attendant to finish with the young girl ahead of them with blonde pigtails.

“Oh, Merlin, yes.” Ginny puffed her hair out of her eyes. “And, this isn’t a first, it’s just, I needed a restock of pixie venom. George used all of his, and I tend to borrow it from him. He doesn’t mind, or, he hasn’t noticed.”

“Borrow?”

Ginny wiggled her fingers at Hermione. “It’s for a good cause, I’m sure he’d agree.”

“I doubt Ron would.”

“Ron’s a jealous prick, what else is new.” They strode up to the counter, and Hermione secured her supplies in no time.

Ginny had picked up some pixie venom, a glass vial containing essence of comfrey and a packet of wiggentree bark. Even if Hermione hadn’t been told outright what Ginny was here to buy, she’d have worked out it was a homemade contraceptive, popular among pure-blood families.

It was taboo in most older circles, of course. Taboo in the sense that everyone used it, but no one would admit to it. Most families ran on the belief that babies were meant to happen if they were meant to happen. Especially when it came to pure-blood families, who sought to widen their ranks and spread their skills.

But Harry and Ginny weren’t even out of their teen years, and there was no place for children in their lives yet. She couldn't fault them, though she failed to understand how people just _did_ that, as if it were so easy.

“I’ll never forgive you for the phrase you imparted upon me.”

“Then I suggest you avoid the third stall on the fourth floor, there’s one for how to make your -- “

“Please don’t.” Hermione adjusted the packages in her arms and tried her best to pretend she hadn’t learned that potion a few weeks ago for a practical purpose.

Not that she’d had the chance to use it, and given how things were going, she doubted she’d _ ever _need it.

“D’you think guys like Malfoy would charge you for him to finish inside you?"

Hermione's eyebrows ricocheted to her hairline, and she fumbled with her paper bags.

"Like, _it’s a luxury_, pedigree spunk, that’ll be a thousand Galleons, you're welcome.” She mimicked his voice, and split into an ugly smile.

The Magical Menagerie lit up again, as Hermione screeched at Ginny all over again. She had to wonder if the girl timed it, to gain the maximum anarchy.

It was as if she'd channeled the late and great Fred Weasley, who thrived on Hermione's discomfort.

They approached Cibus Cafe, faced with Harry and Ron.

Beside them was the ever-elegant Narcissa Malfoy, who stood in perfect silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for the 'fetus deletus' thing, but please, I'm a serious writer, please, where are you going --
> 
> Kudos and comments are super appreciated!


	3. the blarneyondle and the book-stalker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said slow burn, I meant glacial. Even I am surprised; I wrote the "first" chapter, and then went back to explain some things, and we've wound up with an extra six chapters before I even get to the premise of the story, and I -- really hope you like character examinations and just slice of life stuff. There's a larger plot that'll begin to form, I promise, there's a method in this madness.

> _ **August 25th, 1998. Time, please go faster, get me out of here.** _

The cafe was smaller than other restaurants, and that was part of the appeal. There were fewer people who’d interject, to thank Harry or to ask for a signature.

"There's a wait." Ron gestured with a loose fist at the door. “About ten minutes, they said.”

"Ginny reckons she can eat the club sandwich faster than I can," Harry shrugged a shoulder. "Worth the wait."

"Oh, I know I can beat you, Potter."

"I'm excited for you to eat those words, Weasley."

"The only thing I'll be eating is my sandwich -- "

Ron rolled his eyes and nudged his sister. "You eat slower than Percy and he uses a knife and fork for biscuits."

Hermione smiled at her friends, as they sized one another up. Brown against green, locked in a tense battle. Then blue, caught between the two.

"Why're you even taking Potions, Hermione?" Ron cocked a brow at Hermione, his arms crossed and his back against the chipstone wall behind him.

"I’ve elected to do as many practical, guided classes as possible. I want to make the most of what little mentored education I have left.” She looked away from the others, to examine the bustling street outside. There wasn't as many young people as she was used to, and even less Muggle-clad folks. It made her chest ache.

The four of them shuffled to their side of the cafe, to allow an older woman past them. She had empty plates, charmed to hover ahead of her.

Hermione cast a sidelong glance at Mrs. Malfoy, who was also waiting for a table. As if she couldn't clear her throat and throw a few Galleons around...

"So like, Charms, Transfiguration... The incantation classes?" Harry drew her attention back to the group. 

"Yes, and Ancient Runes, Arithmacy as a treat."

“Makes sense, I guess,” Ron looked queasy at the idea that math could be a treat. He tongued his lips apart, in search of conversation. He had that tilt to his brow, the one he’d get when he tried to get her to write an essay for him.

“Muggle Studies is useless to me, as is Divination, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures… I don’t intend to do Herbology, either, as I doubt I’ll ever want to tend to ingredients with enough precision."

“As they say, if you can’t have homegrown, store-bought is fine,” Harry smirked at Hermione, as he parroted a phrase they’d both heard on countless cooking shows. Hermione’s father loved to watch them with his daughter, while Harry’s aunt _ made _ him watch them.

Not to bond, but to make him better at cooking for the household.

“Potions mightn’t be so bad now,” Ron clicked his tongue. "Seeing as Snape won’t be there to mope around, and if you’re lucky, that Malfoy git won’t be there either -- "

Harry and Hermione stared at Ron, as Ginny nudged him with her elbow.

A few paces away, Mrs. Malfoy shifted, imperceptible, her back towards them now. She stood with quiet dignity, her chin high and her hair like sheets of moonlight. She continued to speak in a low voice with the young man beside her.

"Snape was a skilled Potion master." Hermione examined the paper bunting along the walls, each stamped with bindrunes. She looked at anything except for the woman who Ron had shat on, openly.

"Yeah, but he was _ miserable _ about it."

"Have some respect, Ronald," Hermione spoke low, her lips curved downward. "We have perspective on why..."

"As if that fixes all the shite he did."

They grew quieter, matched by Mrs. Malfoy's idle prattle about a garden party she'd had last weekend. She moved, enough that Hermione could see her companion.

The young blonde man had soft features and a tense jaw. He had deep blue eyes, so dark they could be black. Like the bottom of the lake at Hogwarts, or down by the Slytherin dungeons. If someone told her that this man was Draco's older brother, she'd believe it in a heartbeat.

He met her eye, with a heaviness to his gaze that Hermione recognized. A wash of sickly anxiety swirl through her stomach and throat. She shook her head and looked back towards the bunting, the bindrunes.

She didn't recognize _ him_. She couldn’t recall his face, but the way he looked at her…

Ginny and Harry moved closer, against the wall, to allow a pair of rugged up witches to pass by. They were so covered in clothes and scarves that Hermione would bet they were hags. Her suspicions only strengthened when she watched them hobble.

She didn’t mind, of course, it was unfortunate they were so reviled.

And part of her was glad, to snap her away from that man.

A waitress came over, to collect Mrs. Malfoy and the man she was with. She leaned down to whisper something behind her hand to him. He sneered, a patented Malfoy sneer, but he wasn’t a Malfoy.

Was he?

“Hermione, can you put this stuff in your -- “

“Gladly,” Hermione snatched the paper bag from Ginny, to crouch down beside her bag. 

It afforded her a distraction from the strawberry blonde with a kind smile and sharp eyes.

Or worse, the bottomless black ones that saw straight through her.

She straightened up, when another group ambled past them.

They marched towards the free table in short succession, the air playful and perfumed with sweet tarts. Each table was decorated with baby’s breath. It was a strange choice, given the implicit romance of the flowers. It was used within dilution elixirs.

Ginny and Harry ordered some obnoxious sandwich each. They were several inches thicker than Hermione felt necessary. Ron had a burger with fries on the side. It was strange to see more Muggle foods, especially _American _ Muggle food.

Hermione got herself a simple meat pie with spices and a water to drink. She hadn’t had much of an appetite, given her scrimped diet for the past year.

“Oh, one Malfoy is bad enough,” Ron groaned, though he had the good graces to say it under his breath. He had finally noticed the man with Mrs. Malfoy, whom Hermione had spent their wait time examining.

"Huh?"

"They're multiplying," Ron whispered. Perhaps it was the mouthful of burger that he spoke softer. The meat and lettuce had mixed into a sickening blend.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Hermione faced Ron but trailed the trim black suit and blonde hair that had whisked past their table.

No snide comment, no pause of derision. Hermione had almost missed Draco's arrival. She turned at the last moment, to see Draco sit at the same table as Mrs. Malfoy and her friend.

“Do you think that’s Draco’s cousin?” Harry mumbled past his sandwich, his head dipped low. "The one she came with?"

Ginny shook her head, her nose wrinkled as she looked somewhere above her head. “That, or a brother we’ve never seen.”

“I bloody hope not,” Ron frowned, as he snatched up some fries with his fingers. He dipped them into Hermione’s pie, without permission, and grinned with relish. "Imagine if there were as many Malfoys as there are Weasleys. We'd have another war."

A round of stifled giggles sounded from the table, though Hermione laughed out of habit. She pinned her lips shut with her teeth, her gaze fixed to Draco’s lips.

_ It’s been a while,_ he said. She couldn't read lips, but she got that much.

Mrs. Malfoy had her ankles crossed beneath the table and a napkin across her lap. She moved like a glacier, gradual and cool. Her hands didn’t shake, and she never knocked things by mistake.

Their table laughed, but it wasn’t joyful, or loud. It was the restrained twitches in their shoulders and the spread of his lips that gave it away, a twinkle behind his eyes she’d not seen since their fifth year.

Not since he’d first flashed her his Inquisitorial Squad badge, as if to ask what she was going to do about it.

“Why don’t you just let the Cannons go, hm?” Ginny waved her hand, which caused Hermione to jump.

“Let the Cannons go?” Ron repeated, in disbelief. “As if it’s that simple!”

Ginny traced Hermione’s gaze like a Muggle police officer lining up a bullet trajectory. She swiveled back, as she smirked behind her sandwich.

“I’ll have you know, they’re shaping up incredibly -- eh, _ kind of _ good this year!” Ron threw his hand into the air as if he didn’t have a burger clamped in his right hand. Lettuce and shredded onions dripped from the buns, and onto the floor.

“What’s their shot to point ratio?” Ginny hummed, her hands raised to suggest _ what are you gonna do _?

“One in twenty is pretty -- “

“The Harpies are one in five.” Ginny gestured, wide and explosive. “One in twenty -- they miss _ nineteen _ shots before they can even get one?

“Oh, well, that’s an old statistic.”

“One in five, versus one in twenty -- that’s, what, four times better?” Ginny looked at Hermione, unsure of her mental math.

“Yes,” Hermione said, softly.

“One in five!”

“That’s fake!”

Mrs. Malfoy had pivoted, to raise a manicured eyebrow at their table. Draco’s expression had soured, which Hermione tried to avoid. She had watched him twitch and frown as the Weasley duo got louder, but he hadn’t said anything.

She had been waiting for it, for him to snap, to come over and yell at them, she was ready, she was ready for that, why wasn’t he coming _ over._

She had to make up for her blunder at the bookstore.

Hermione caught herself, anxiety rolled around in her chest, in her stomach, her lips pouted. It was then Mrs. Malfoy looked her dead in the eye, and a sickly wave of ice washed from her scalp to her toes.

She acted as if she’d not been staring for the last twenty minutes, as if she’d not been watching her son because she hadn’t -- 

In her efforts to _ act natural_, Hermione rushed a bite of her food. Her fork clinked into her front teeth, which made her jump. Her grip slipped, and her forkful of sauce and meat down her cheek and across her lap.

“I have to use the bathroom,” Hermione shot up, her chair flew backward into a waitress. Their levitation charm faltered, but the drinks remained floating. One glass of water had almost hit the ground, but Harry had snatched it out of the air with the reflexes of a Seeker.

Hermione would have been impressed, if she’d not spilled a mess down her cheek, into her hair, and onto her jumper.

Not to mention the ache in her teeth, from where she’d knocked them with her fork.

_Dementors, kiss me now._

She followed the _ lumous filas _ down the hallway, cozy and cramped, her face red and her heart too fast in her chest.

At the end of the hallway, she could see an outdoor area. Her head quirked to the side, as they were in Diagon Alley, and the building was backed by Muggle London. She looked back over her shoulder, sure that this was still the Cibus Cafe.

Instead of a balcony, as she anticipated, there was a picturesque porch, littered with simple white tables. She couldn’t reach them, as there were signs hung up, that said the area was undergoing repairs.

It must have been an enchanted extension, as she could see a meadow ahead, with a sloping hillside and a too-warm sunset. She felt like she had stepped into a storybook, her mouth popped open.

It was beautiful here.

The tables had gourds and a few autumn leaves. A string of paper lanterns hung around the lattices, as she looked into the fenced area ahead.

“Granger, are you,” Malfoy hesitated, as he set his brows into an aloof slant. “That is, you’re not poisoned, are you?”

Hermione turned, her hand busy against her cheek. She rubbed her face, her brows furrowed. “What?” She looked at her hand, to see if she’d scrubbed away the muck.

Draco, in his trim black suit, so incredibly _ Muggle_, stared down at her with absolute concern. Who did he think he was, to look at her like he _ cared._

She must have been poisoned, to see that in his features.

"And you're sure you aren't poisoned? You seem unwell."

“No! No, I just,” she cringed, red in her cheeks and fire behind her eyes. “I’m fine.”

He looked unconvinced, the corner of his lips kicked into a smile.

A smile!

The nerve.

She wanted to grab his face, to tear off whatever mask he had on, to see what had provoked him to look at her like they were anything more than childhood enemies. She brushed her fingers through her hair, her fingers snagged in the curls.

“My mother asked me to check." He looked over his shoulder, lips parted. “She said you looked ill, red in the face, eyes bulging…” He returned his attention to her, as he gave her a once-over.

It was then he drew his wand, to point it squarely at her chest.

Hermione’s hand jumped for her hip, to yank out her own wand. She could use wandless magic, of course, but he would have an edge in aggressive spells due to the foci he had in hand.

She pointed her wand back at him, as she stepped backward. Her thigh hit the rope, which cut the porch off from the sprawl of little white tables. She breathed deeply through her nose, her bottom lip twitching.

Something broke behind Draco’s eyes, and he parted his lips. Not to incantate, or to speak, but merely to breath. “Ah.”

Hermione kept her wand trained on him, her lips pursed to stop them from wobbling.

“_Scourgify_.” 

The muck that had landed on Hermione’s jumper fizzled, the brown-red spot now gone altogether. Her heart didn’t slow down, as bile settled at the back of her throat.

They stood in silence, her wand trained on him, his held to the side.

He stared at her, empty-eyed, a question unspoken behind them.

_ Do you really think so lowly of me? _

_ Do you not remember? _

_ Do you hate me? _

“You back here, Hermione?” Ginny stumbled to a stop, her eyes narrowed at the two of them. She took in the way Hermione looked, petrified, unsure, and how she’d drawn her wand on Draco.

Quick as lightning, Ginny had her own wand out, a fist formed around the handle.

The three of them stood in this stalemate, Hermione was frozen from the shock that _ he _ had come to check on her, of all people. Draco and Ginny were locked in a wordless challenge, his face cool while she had lit up like a fireplace.

Draco looked between the girls, his jaw set and his eyes cruel. He waited for Hermione to explain herself, but she was at a loss for words. 

With two against one, Draco conceded. He slipped the wand back into the pocket of his slacks, no doubt magically expanded to accommodate its length.

It was rowan wood if she had to guess.

Strange.

“Off you pop, Malfoy, lovely to see you as always,” Ginny hummed, her wand held towards him.

Hermione was prepared for him to glare at her, to insult her, to ask why she didn’t explain it was a misunderstanding.

Instead, he walked away, unaffected.

As if he didn’t care.

Ginny allowed her arm to drop, only once his retreating figure vanished around the corner. She rolled her eyes, a grin replaced her frown. “I thought you’d gone to the loo, to fix your jumper.”

Hermione rubbed her forehead, words caught between her ears and useless to her.

“You forget you’re a witch, you can just, _ ta-da. _” Ginny wiggled her wand at Hermione, to imitate a spell. She bonked Hermione on the nose with the tip of her wand, which caused Hermione a spark of panic.

“Malfoy did that, for me,” Hermione tucked her wand back into her pocket. “I panicked, he came out and, thought I’d been poisoned, or some rot.” She shoved her curls over her shoulder, her neck too hot and her face on fire.

“Malfoy cleaned you up?” Ginny scoffed. “He followed you to _ help _ you?”

“I think so.”

“Doubt it,” Ginny shook her head as if she’d licked a billywig stinger.

“Well, he drew his wand, and I drew mine. I thought he was going to hex me, in all honesty. It was reflex."

“It’s only Malfoy.” Ginny gave her a tight-lipped smile, her hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t worry about hurting his feelings, he doesn’t _ have _ any.”

But she had, hadn’t she?

When they reemerged to the seating area of the cafe, she looked for Malfoy. She’d never _ looked _ for him anywhere, but she did. He was nowhere to be seen, though Mrs. Malfoy remained, along with her strange friend.

Harry and Ron smiled at their girls' return, a few desserts spread on the table in front of them.

“Oh, you’ve got something, here,” Ron licked his thumb and wiped at Hermione’s cheek. His thumb sunk into the plush of her cheek, warm fingers framed around her chin.

“Ew, Ron,” Hermione laughed.

“What’s _ ew_, is my spit gross to you?"

Hermione simpered at the way he phrased it, her lips pursed as she rubbed her cheek with her sleeve. “I can clean myself up, thank you.”

“Doubtful!” Ginny spat a piece of cheesecake out as she interjected, smiling at Hermione.

Hermione spent the rest of the outing in silence, on edge, as she tried to listen to the conversation between Mrs. Malfoy and the familiar-unfamiliar man. He must have been several years older than them, perhaps around Charlie’s age.

It had been in vain, though the man would catch her eye with a look of boredom, and the same unease would wash over her. He seemed like he knew something about her that she didn’t, but all she had was the broad overhang of his forehead and his pointed features.

No name, no history, no connection to anything except _ maybe _ the Malfoys.

And really, she cared so much less about the mystery.

Her rudeness towards Draco trumped that.

It wasn’t until she landed on her back, in her private room within the Leaky Cauldron, that she felt at ease.

The others had parted from her downstairs, a mess of farewells, and the exchange of things. Hermione gave Ginny her potion ingredients, and Ginny handed her a bookmark with a little kitten with three eyes and an extra tail.

Hermione turned the bookmark between her fingers, as the kitten played with a ball of yarn. She thumbed it, thoughtful, aware that she had a week until she’d be back at Hogwarts.

* * *

> _ **August 27th, 1998. Early morning, though 'Ginny-early', so around 11am.** _

Two days and many books later, Hermione jogged down the stairs of the Leaky Cauldron.

She had gotten used to the lull in the third step, and how if you touched the third brick from the banister a little voice would greet you in another language. She tapped the brick, her brow raised in anticipation.

“Bonjour!” It squeaked, and Hermione smiled

As she reached the main room of the pub, the floor plan opened up wide. The banisters were exposed and allowed her a view of the crowd below. She felt out of place, as she could see all the witches and wizards in their robes and hats. They were bundled up downstairs, at their tables, wrapped up in conversations.

She had her ratty Converse on, along with her nicest jeans and blouse. As she landed on the final step, she spotted her friend.

_ Friends. _

Ginny sat at a round table, accompanied by Luna Lovegood.

“You look especially fluffy today, Hermione.” Luna smiled, her hands wrapped around an upside-down teacup.

“Um, as do you, Luna?” Hermione raised an eyebrow and shot the girl a smile.

“Thank you,” Luna adjusted the teacup, closer to the edge of the table.

“She caught a _ Blarneyondle _.” Ginny deadpanned, her hands folded in front of her. An empty mug of Butterbeer sat beside her. “Very exciting, right Lulu?”

“Oh very exciting...” Luna nodded, her expression conspiratorial. “I’m going to take it with us. They bring good luck when buying socks.” 

“Of course.” Hermione felt her blood pressure skyrocket, her hands clasped and unclasped.

“That was a joke,” Luna kept her serene smile, her eyes wide and bright. “They actually bring you good luck when buying _ gloves. _”

“So you lied to us? _ Luna _… I feel so betrayed.” Ginny looked at Luna with a fondness Muggle children had for ice cream trucks, appreciative but not able to catch up with them.

“Oh no, Ginny, you see, it isn’t a lie if it’s a joke.”

Hermione waved her hands, to urge them up from their table. She didn’t want to dawdle, as the idea of clothes shopping caused her enough grief.

The trio set off for the Muggle side of the bar, to make the rounds through the nearby boutiques. And, for as much as Hermione was anxious about it, it went by with relative ease.

Ginny helped her pick out jeans, and some basics. She didn’t need anything grand, she just needed casual wear for the weekends. She’d not bought clothes since she was fifteen, and she could feel the way her thin cotton t-shirt failed to cover her lower back when she stretched.

She stuck to beiges and creams, with a pop of red or gold. She got a wonderful navy blue jumper and a trench coat that Ginny threatened her with.

Luna assisted with socks and underwear, though she kept picking out lingerie instead of the practical basics.

“But this is so pretty,” Luna sighed. “Look at the lace. It’s like a fairy wing.”

Ginny and Hermione exchanged a nervous look.

“Muggles have fairies, don’t worry, they don’t know I’m a witch.”

A young Muggle girl shot them a look of concern. But when she saw the three-layer thick outfit Luna had, the mismatched socks and oversized radishes she wore… Her expression relaxed, and she smiled.

“My friend loves witchy stuff too, she always makes me burn lemongrass candles.”

“Oh, do you have dragons that stick around too long?” Luna asked, idle,

“My mother can be a bit of a dragon, yes.” She smiled down at a matching set of emerald lingerie. She pivoted, to head to the counter.

“Statue of Secrecy?” Hermione hissed.

Luna smiled, dreamily. “Oh, they think I’m one of those new-age _ Muggle _witches, they don’t know I’m -- “

“Yes, okay, thank you Luna,” Hermione snatched a pair of blue lace knickers, and a bra to match. A treat, for herself, because she’d never owned something so lush in her life.

“You could use some lemongrass though, Hermione,” Ginny mumbled as she followed behind her with the same green lingerie as the Muggle woman.

Hermione calculated her point for her; protection against dragons and serpents.

“Oh, I don’t think lemongrass would work on Draco.” Luna picked up a chapstick from the counter and looked hopeful at Ginny. “He’s not a serpent anymore.”

Hermione spotted a thong as they approached the counter, and considered the possibility that she could garrot Luna. But that would be like trying to strangle a Disney princess, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to do that.

They bought their things, Hermione with her underwear, and Ginny with her own, plus Luna’s chapstick.

“I don’t think you’re meant to use it like that,” Ginny swallowed hard.

“No, it’s okay, it’s a Muggle thing, right Hermione?”

“I wouldn’t, personally…” Hermione stared at the cobblestone as Luna ate the chapstick like it was raw cookie dough out of a tube.

Luna took another bite of the lip gunk. "Then why is it tasty?" She lopped a bit off with her index finger and pushed it into her pocket, the one that the Blarneyondle had been riding in.

“How did you know who Ginny meant, Luna?” Hermione asked as they waited for the lights to change. "About the lemongrass."

"Because Draco likes you."

Ginny tripped on an uneven piece of the sidewalk and Hermione dropped her shopping.

"What?" Hermione spoke, emotionless. She should feel something, but it was lost on her.

“I thought everyone knew that he liked you.” She frowned. “Was that a secret?”

Ginny laughed, so hard they had to wait for the next change of lights. Luna had almost walked into traffic, which sobered Ginny up.

“Sorry, but, no, Luna, no sweetheart,” Ginny cupped her friends cheeks, to look at Luna’s eyes. "You precious little thing."

Luna smiled into the affection, like a round-faced kitten. "I'm not little, the Blarneyondle is." She slow blinked the same, a blush to her nose and cheeks.

Hermione scowled at the pair of them. A pang of jealousy formed, as she just didn’t understand how people could just be so… Friendly, with their friends, or with others.

All the touching and the cutesy things.

_ Ugh. _

Her chest ached, and she bunched her hands against the strap of her satchel.

The lights changed, and the trio resumed their roundabout return to the Leaky Cauldron.

“I really don't know what gave you that impression Luna, but you...” Hermione inhaled, her mind reeling.

"What made you think that, Luna?" Ginny prompted her hands in her pockets. She had a slim dragon leather jacket and beautiful black jeans. She always looked so _cool_...

"A concussion, probably." Hermione yanked at the sleeve of her jumper.

“Oh, no. No, it was how he talked about her. He was always talking about her, at school. And he always looked at her across the hall. I thought you’d noticed.” Luna tapped her chin, with a soft, round finger. “And whenever you’d borrow a book, he’d always borrow it right after you.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh yes, I noticed it because you recommended a book on Muggle Norse mythology.”

They arrived back at the Leaky Cauldron, which had filled with Hogwarts students out to gather their supplies.

“And?”

“It wasn't there.”

Hermione massaged her forehead, though she covered that movement with a brush of her hair.

“That could be a coincidence.” Ginny held the door open for them, as they filed in. She tossed her long, red plait over her shoulder, her bag swung over her shoulder.

“I thought it was strange when I got the book -- he had taken it out. And then I looked in a few other books. He borrowed almost every book that you did, a day after you.”

"And you just, looked through books in the library?" Even Hermione, who loved to look at books, found that hard to swallow.

"_That_ was a coincidence! I was looking for Paperplumps, the larva like to sleep in the introductions of textbooks. I noticed how if your name appeared, then his name would, too." Luna shrugged. “Not every single time, but most. I checked with Madame Pince.”

“Why didn’t you _ tell _ us?” Ginny quirked a brow at the blonde, her arms crossed.

“Hm, you never asked.” Luna bent down, to dig in the little pocket on her overalls. She drew out a bunched up fist and seemed to release _ something _. Maybe it was a trick of the light or a shadow. 

A few wizards nearby watched Luna with concerned attention, unsure if they should intervene.

“Thank you, friend.” Luna smiled up at Ginny and Hermione, pleased with herself. “He was sweet, wasn’t he?”

Ginny and Hermione smiled and nodded, though Hermione was stuck on the thought that she’d been academically stalked during her time at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write Luna forever and a half, but she's like a garnish. Too much and I think it'd ruin the fun.
> 
> Kudos and comments are super appreciated!


	4. get past the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emily, the mysterious man from last chapter and a few others will play in to the plot at large, I promise. :3 I really hope y'all enjoy this, it's been really fun! And I really hope they come across in character but believably tweaked based on the experiences they went thru during the last few years.

> _ **August 31st, 1998. Where did the time go already?** _

Hermione awoke, the morning of her last day within Diagon Alley. She had spent most of her time buried in books, or in the lesser-traveled stores. She had secured a sweet snowglobe, where the weather outside was reflected within it.

She had donated her old clothes to a nearby charity, too, as she shoved away her past and pursued the future.

She packed away her decorations, the little lantern lights along the bedposts and the mug she’d refilled with peppermint tea hourly. She had the day, certainly, but she thought it best to be prepared for tomorrow.

With no plans and no set place to be, she headed towards Cibus Cafe.

The unseasonably warm autumn had thawed a little, and so the streets were fuller. Last-minute Hogwarts students peppered the streets, though Hermione continued to worry over how _ few _ there were.

The large, ornate window led straight into the cafe. Couples were spread amongst the tables, a pair of brunettes to one side, a redhead and blonde, and a blonde with someone who’s hair was blue-black.

They all seemed immersed in conversation, alive and laughing, as if the world was good again.

Hermione stepped aside, as one such couple emerged full of laughter, their hands clasped together and their cheeks bright red. They had a little paper bag each and laughed too loud. They’d not even noticed Hermione, eager to get inside.

She grimaced, inwardly, and slipped past them with some effort.

“Hermione,” a voice chirruped. “Oh, Hermione!”

Hermione’s eyes widened, to see Emily from the Leaky Cauldron.

Seated with Draco Malfoy.

Of course.

“Emily,” Hermione dipped her head, a smile on her lips despite her apprehension.

Was she meant to acknowledge him?

He shot her a sidelong glance, his hand beneath his chin as he pouted at the wall ahead.

“We were just getting breakfast, would you want to join us?” She gestured at the table, her attention on Draco rather than Hermione.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“No, please,” she gestured to the chair again. “I love your coat.”

Hermione looked at the deep navy trench coat, the one that she’d buckled and bought despite the price. She had a perfectly fine caramel one and…

“It’s an improvement,” Draco took a sip of water. “Out to impress someone, Granger?”

“It was for me,” Hermione bunched her hair up into her fist, to pull it over one shoulder. “After everything that happened, I felt it would help put everything into the past.”

Draco flexed a brow in response as if he understood. Given he was in the same black suit she’d seen him in during sixth year, she doubted he really got it. She took the seat that Emily had insisted upon, and the sweet, stupid Hufflepuff sat in blissful ignorance.

As if she’d not just set up the most volatile brunch arrangement.

“So!” Emily broke the silence, her hands folded together in front of her. “Aren’t you excited for school tomorrow?”

“I’m a little nervous, actually.” She noticed how Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t know if it’ll be quite the same.”

“It will be strange,” Emily bit her thumb between her teeth, as she eyed the prints hung on the wall. They were enchanted sketches of cupcakes, with glittering cupcake foils and sprinkles that changed colours. “But I think it’ll be good to see it back to normal.”

“Normal?” Draco scoffed.

“As normal as Hogwarts can be,” she waved a hand at him.

“So are you two,” Hermione began, unsure. “That is, how…”

“Family friends,” Emily wiggled her fingers in Draco’s direction. “His mother and mine were schoolmates. We had to do all our finishing classes together when we were kids, which, _ ooh _!” She slapped Draco on the bicep, who looked miserable. “Did I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Daphne Greengrass asked out Ernie Macmillan.”

“Why should I care?” Draco raised his brow at her, his posture slackened as he sank into his seat.

“Well you remember, how she brought him to one of our dance classes, the exam ones — “

And Emily broke into an intricate series of details that confused Hermione beyond words. Her story wove between names of Pureblood families and places Hermione had only ever read about. Her eyes narrowed at Emily, as she tried to pick apart how exactly _ she _ of all people was close to Draco.

And how close were they, really.

“-- and that’s why it’s so weird.”

“Really, Em, you worry too much about what others do.” Draco picked at his bottom lip before he forced his hand away.

“I was just letting you know!”

An assortment of pastries and treats appeared, levitated by the same witch Hermione had taken out with a chair earlier in the week. She avoided eye contact, her palms sweaty and her vision unfocused.

“Why did you ask me to join you, Emily?” Hermione locked her gaze onto the girl, her brow furrowed.

“I thought it’d be sad, to see you sit on your own.”

“I feel equally sad, intruding on your date.”

“This isn’t a date,” Emily gestured with a buttered piece of bread, as several crumbs flew at Draco. "As if I'd date _him_."

“Ouch, Fawley.” Draco smirked, a hand to his chest. “My heart.”

“Like I said, our parents are friends, they make us hang out every so often.” Emily took a hefty bite of her bread, as she chewed with her mouth half-open. “Pureblood tripe, tragically.”

“Your parents make you spend time together?”

Draco shifted, uncomfortable at Hermione’s gaze.

“They don’t _ make _ us, but they annoy us until we concede.” He toyed with his butter knife, as he etched a small line into the already scratched tabletop. “I wouldn’t expect _ you _ to understand.”

Emily gave him a tight-lipped smile, and Draco winced as a blunt impact of something against his shin.

Had she kicked him?

“I thought arranged marriages and the like were frowned upon,” Hermione took one of the sugar cookies, which she snapped in half. A cup of peppermint tea had been brought out, though she didn’t recall asking for it.

Perhaps the old witch she'd knocked had noticed and remembered -- as if to appease her assailant. Hermione blushed along her chest and neck, her head dipped as she examined the tealeaves. 

“No one does arranged marriages anymore," Emily waved a hand. "But that doesn’t stop Draco’s mother from owling me weekly, on and on about how things were going to be different, how much Draco has grown, and changed — ”

“You could always say no to her.” Draco dropped the knife, to rattle against the plate. “If it’s such a burden to be seen with me.”

“It’s not a burden.” Emily’s gaze dropped, her lips downturned.

“We don't need your pity.” He clenched his hand beside his plate, wrinkles appeared across his forehead. "I'll be sure to ask my mother to stop owling you, if it's so _annoying_." He looked so much older, though the war had that effect on everyone.

“She never annoys me,” Emily waved a hand as if to stifle Draco’s outburst.

Hermione expected him to stand up, to walk away in a grand display, for his bratty nature to resurface.

Instead, he exhaled, his neck drawn tight as he looked over his shoulder.

It was somehow worse, like a chained beast at the circus.

“The Fawley family kept clear of, um — a lot of the — “ Emily waved, though she kept her hand close to herself. "_Unpleasantness_." Her eyes darted to Draco’s left forearm, the one that was tensed beneath black silk and cashmere.

_ The Death Eaters_. 

“We can’t dwell on what happened. We can learn from it, certainly, and take lessons from it, to keep it from happening again.” Hermione spoke, though she sounded far more confident than she felt.

“You think it’s that easy?” Draco snapped.

“Those who deserve punishment will receive it. We can’t afford to focus on what we _ think _ we deserve…”

"And who you believe deserves punishment?"

"That's not for me to decide," Hermione plucked some lint off her jumper, the sleek grey one she'd bought with Ginny.

“I doubt you really believe that, Granger.” Draco picked up his mug, black coffee with nothing else to it. "You should know better than anyone who deserves to be in Azkaban right now." He sipped at it, his gaze fixed on the wall, away from her, away from Emily.

She had to wonder why he was still here.

She saw the ghost of his wand, pointed at her chest. The way he stared at her when she drew hers, and how his icy blue eyes turned to embers.

"If we don't allow people a chance to grow, they won't try." Hermione adjusted herself, her ankles crossed beneath the table. "It isn't easy, but nothing worth doing is."

"Really," Draco sneered, his eyes narrowed at her over his mug. His ring tapped on the ceramic of it, and she realized it wasn't truly black. It was a deep blue, speckled, finely, with greys and whites, almost imperceptible. 

“A great wizard allowed second chances,” Hermione ran her index finger and thumb together in small circles. “To those who would embrace the chance to grow and change. Not everyone will take it though. Some remain trapped in their own twisted choices.”

“Enjoy your breakfast, ladies,” he shoved up from the table, and walked away without another word. 

Hermione took a breath, too quick, the air blisteringly cold as he opened the door. A storm had formed outside, sheer water now belted down against the cafe.

“Sorry about him” Emily mumbled, her chin in her hands. “He’s been weird ever since he got mixed up with those...” She mumbled, though Hermione picked out what she'd said.

_ Those Death _ _ Eaters_.

“He’s not one of them. I don't think he ever was,” she added, lowly.

Hermione tipped her head to watch him pass the window. He blinked out of existence before he’d crossed from one side of the frame to the other. He'd been soaked before that, hair plastered to his face from those few seconds in the rain.

“He was the one that spotted you.” Emily plucked a cupcake from the table, to roll it between her fingers. “He asked if it'd be okay, if you joined us.”

Hermione choked on her tea, her brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

“He saw you through the window,” Emily shrugged, her arms crossed on the tabletop. “Said something about apologizing, but honestly, he acted like such a git. He’s always a bit of a git, but, hey.”

Hermione failed to follow, a sensation she loathed. “If anything, I owe him an apology.”

“Well, you’ll see him at school, you can apologize to each other then,” Emily reached across to steal the raspberry tart that Draco hadn’t touched.

She couldn’t believe this bubbly little Hufflepuff could bring out any level of sweetness from Draco, and yet…

Perhaps it was a family thing, or his mother made him do it.

“Are you really friends with him?”Hermione looked at the table in front of her, thoughtful. "Or is it just for his mother's sake?"

Emily nodded, sucking at her sticky fingers. “He’s not exactly touchy-feely to people he’s not close to, never has been, but he’s sweet when he wants to be.”

Even as Emily spoke, Hermione felt her insides curl into knots.

* * *

> _ **September 1st, 1998. How badly I want to be home, when I have no home to go to.** _

Hermione stood beside the barrier between platforms nine and ten, her head swiveled from side to side as she searched for the Weasleys. They were easier to spot than Harry, who blended in far easier than their fiery locks.

Her hands furled and unfurled against the trolley handle, her chin lifted and her eyes wet.

It was exciting though, wasn’t it?

She had been given the marvelous opportunity to return to Hogwarts, to make up for her lost year of studies, and to secure the N.E.W.T.s that she deserved. She didn't need them, Ron had insisted. They could have any job they wished for, any possible career, all because of their actions during the war.

But those bruises and cuts were earned in the interest of protecting those like her, those who were unable to protect themselves. She lived a selfless life for a year, in the interest of saving Muggles and Magical folk alike. She refused to leverage her duty in the interest of a position within The Ministry.

And offers had been made, countless offers, from bookstores to beekeepers, from wand stores to Wizengamot. She could have almost any job she could conceive, and even ones she'd never thought of before. The choices were delectable but ill-willed.

Before Hermione sunk herself into the world, the real one outside of Hogwarts, she needed to let Hogwarts go.

It was selfish to return, as selfish as she deserved to be now that the dust had settled. She wanted to bury her nose in the old library books and to examine the tapestries she'd walked by every day. She wanted more than anything to bite down into some toast and sneak a Sickle beneath her plate, in the hopes that one of the House Elves would find it and consider it a payment.

(Those Sickles always ended up back in her pocket or by her bedside, but she persisted.)

She wasn't ready to grow up, to skip past schooling, to use her perceived status to further herself.

Perhaps that was the crux of it all, of why she wanted to go back to Hogwarts.

But she was _ scared_.

No.

Hermione Jean Granger refused to be scared of anything, least of all _ Hogwarts_.

Her nose twitched at the mere thought, her cheeks warm and throat dry. The idea that she was afraid of being an adult was, frankly, an insult. It skewed her senses and painted her scarlet soul a sickly green.

She was a Gryffindor, and -- and she was exceptionally brave!

Of course.

Besides, bravery was the act of doing difficult things, even while seeped in fear. And while the idea of selecting a job terrified her, not completing her schooling was far worse.

A dark thought surfaced, of how Hogwarts could be in shambles, irreparable...

Most of all, she needed to see that Hogwarts was back to the way it had been in her first year. She needed to see the magnificence return to those hallowed halls, that had greeted her all those years ago. She needed to see one more sorting ceremony, and she needed to watch the anxious first years with the doting caution of a mother.

How she'd guide them to the Gryffindor dormitory -- ah.

She ignored the way her pocket felt too light, no longer weighted with her Prefect badge. She ignored how empty her pocket felt without the Head Girl badge she'd craved since her childhood. It should jingle alongside her Prefect badge, a pair of cast metal pins that meant so little in the scheme of a world so large.

Her hand flexed over the empty pocket, and instead pushed at the unruly curls that clung to her forehead.

Autumn hadn't yet chilled over, as England compensated for the Dementors of last year. The excessively cold weather was instead broiling, and she regretted the thick cable knit sweater.

She waited for the Weasleys to arrive. This included Harry, as he insisted he'd see her off. She knew it was about Ginny, as she was a seventh year this year. Hermione bit back her prideful sneer, as her inside writhed.

Did this mean she had been kept back a year?

The whiplash insecurity roiled within her gut. She chose to return, with the complimentary title of 'eighth year'. But it would be the same coursework, wouldn't it? She'd been held back, she wasn't good enough, she'd forgotten how to write essays, she -- 

She had to do this.

The bustle of Mrs. Weasley was unmistakable, as she watched Ginny, Harry and Ron hurry towards her. She smiled, tight-lipped and wary eyed.

She didn't look at Ron, as he avoided her eye first. She instead focused on Ginny and Harry, who greeted her with a hug each.

"I'm gonna miss you Hermione," Harry's voice crackled, a mixture of pride and worry.

"Ouch," Ginny bemoaned, her hand formed into a claw against her chest. 

"You know I'll miss you," Harry cut back, his glasses drooped down his nose. He shoved them back, a healthy smile broke across his lips. He'd started eating again, Hermione surmised.

"You better miss me, and not fall for some gorgeous girl in the Auror department."

"Oh, so the blokes are fair game?" Ron cut in, ruffling Harry's hair. "I'll keep him busy for you Gin."

"Don't be gross," Ginny whined, as she yanked Harry away from Ron.

"You're gross with him all the time."

"Yeah but he's my boyfriend!"

"And he's my best mate."

The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice acted put upon from the attention, but he continued to smile through their roughhousing. If you spent enough time at the Burrow, you got used to the heightened aggression as a form of affection.

(Hermione hadn't spent enough time there, clearly.)

Ron buckled and pulled Hermione close, to give her a hug goodbye. She obliged at first and then stayed in it for too long. She tried not to dig her fingers into the flannel shirt he'd opted for, too hot beneath her fingers.

It was a shirt she'd borrowed from him, once. He laughed at how it hung over her hands, and how she drowned in it. How she looked like she wasn't wearing pants, given she'd had shorts on.

How he'd stroked the outside of her thigh, the back of his thumb in small circles at the dinner table.

How she tapped his hand away, and he wouldn't speak to her for the rest of the night.

"You're looking well, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley spoke with tempered kindness, the sort a librarian would give you were you to return books a day late. "A shame you had to leave the Burrow, we missed you."

"I -- yes, well," Hermione had a lionheart and bold eyes but she couldn't even look at Mrs. Weasley. "I didn't want to be in the way."

"You were never in the way." Ron let her go, begging with his eyes the same way he had, dozens of times before.

Hermione refused to meet his eye, that fondness still there. She couldn't stomach it, not with what he was demanding of her.

_ I can't stay_, she replied, wordless.

He still didn't get it.

"Nevermind that, it's good to complete your studies," Mrs. Weasley nudged Ginny towards the gap between platforms nine and ten.

"Wouldn't shut up about going when she was a kid," Ron snorted. "Now she's tryin' to skive out."

"Says you!" Ginny shrieked back. "Mum, I told you, it's unfair -- it's bloody _ bogus. _"

"Gin," Harry tried, his hand on her lower back. He stroked his thumb against her ribs, the same way Ron would do when Mrs. Weasley got onto her at the Burrow.

He always touched her, once he'd gained permission in the Chamber of Secrets; as if she'd given eternal permission. She shifted away, to fuss with the clasps of her trucks, out of the way of Ron's reach.

"No Harry, it's bollocks! I don't want to be there, I can't do it -- you didn't have to do your seventh year, neither did Ron, or George -- "

"Ginevra Molly Weasley," Mrs. Weasley kept her tone soft and level, which was somehow worse than her screams. "I can't begin to count the number of people who missed the chance to return to school. Even worse, those who..." She sputtered, tears leaked down her cheeks.

Hermione remained static, her chest tight and her lips pursed. This was a painful yet regular thing. They'd lost so many people in the war, acquaintances to family.

"Oh, if Fred were here -- "

"Mum, don't do that," Ginny's voice broke, soft and as apologetic as Hermione had ever heard it. "I'll go, please don't cry."

Ron took his mother under his arm. He used the gesture to swipe at his cheek. Hermione pretended not to notice how watery his eyes looked.

Hermione tore her gaze away from him, a mixture of proud of how he'd grown and miserable for the reason of it. The summer had been a resounding tragedy, at no fault of anyone except those who sought to do harm.

Harry went through, along with Ginny. Then followed Mrs. Weasley, who worried her hands in her oversized blouse.

Her stomach plummeted when Ron turned to her, rather than followed his mother. He reached out to her, and she took his hand as she was meant to. He was tall, taller than she'd remembered, but there was no anxiousness to it. He used to make her blush, how tall he'd gotten, how much he'd grown into his nose.

But it's not the same. 

As she stared at their hands, empty, and then to his face. It was familiar, which was fine, but distant. Like a poster you'd see in the window of a shop every time you passed it.

Ever-present, sun-bleached and beige.

"'Mione, you don't have to go back there," he moved her hand closer to himself but thought better of the gesture.

He'd kiss the papercuts along her index and middle finger, while they laid beneath a droopy willow tree.

When they were happy, and not arguing.

"I know I don't have to; I want to."

"I won't be there to look out for you." He grit his teeth, as he sucked in a breath. "Neither will Harry. What if something happens to you?"

"I'll be with Ginny, Neville... _ Luna_," Hermione's lips quirked, as she fought down the urge to laugh. She instead reached up to smooth his hair, which was kicked up around his ears. She'd suggest that he get a haircut but she wasn't one to talk.

Her hair had grown to her midback, lofted by the curls it held. It'd probably be longer, if she ever bothered to straighten it. The way his hand played through her hair made her glad she'd not done such a thing, as the tangles and curls kept Ron from touching it. He'd get his knobbly fingers knotted into it, and yank, and it'd spiral from there.

"But what if -- "

"Please Ron," she pulled her hands back, to step around him. "I have to do this, for my own peace of mind."

"Your peace of mind? What about mine," Ron pleaded, but he had already lost this battle. "You can't expect me to wait for you, can you?"

"I already told you, I'm not asking you to _ wait _for me," Hermione bristled. "I'm sorry my pursuit of higher education is such a tremendous burden on you."

"It's not a burden," Ron snapped, a whine in his tone. "I don't get why you're punishing yourself, by going back there -- "

"I don't see it as a punishment." Hermione's tone hardened as she stepped left and right, to approach the wall behind Ron. "You could come along, you know. You were asked to return, too."

"Why go back there?" Ron grabbed her upper arm, to still her bobbing. "We could be together like we wanted -- no waiting, no bickering, just... Life's too short to go back to a place like that. To not be with someone you care about."

"A place like that?" Hermione hissed, her eyes narrowed. "That _ place _ is what helped us defeat Voldemort, and you want to discredit it, for what happened at the end?"

"What about us?"

"Yes, what about _ us_," a voice drawled from behind her.

A mess of platinum blond hair and unkind blue eyes greeted Hermione, though she hadn't needed to turn to know who had spoken. He feigned boredom as he stood, rigid and patient for them to clear off.

Moreover, he was alone.

She felt the elastic tug of caution that always existed around the Malfoy family, even before the War swelled.

Her arm tingled, as she thumbed the scar through her sweater. 

Ron, who had regained his composure, started forward. He didn't get too close to Malfoy, but that must have taken all his will power. He shoved aside the trolley with the toe of his boot, the hairs on the back of his neck on edge.

Malfoy remained unaffected, a hand at his elbow and beneath his chin. His jaw tightened, however, and his throat bobbed in silence.

"As if they're letting you back in, Malfoy," Ron sneered, an impeccable impression of the voice that Malfoy would use on him. He'd shifted, to stand between Hermione and the rack of black dragon leather cases.

"They practically begged me to come back," Malfoy dipped his head, his voice low insidious.

"Sod off," Ron kicked the trolley again, a scuff mark bore onto the trunk. The leather rippled and the mark faded, as if it had never existed.

Privately, Hermione was curious about what charm was used.

A protective charm? Or was it the leather itself?

How curious.

"Oh, don't distract from the real issue; just tell her you love her and you'll be true to her." Malfoy made a show of it, as he waved a hand at them to then check his wrist. He tapped the watch face with a long index finger, the silver ring on his thumb caught in the dim light. "Unlike you, Weasley, I have a train to catch."

"I do love her!"

"Yes, good start."

"And I'm not gonna _cheat_ on her."

"Ron -- " Hermione raised her hand, to tug at him. But he shook her hand away, too angry at Malfoy to oblige.

"You'll be chaste by design," Malfoy gestured at Ron loosely. "With that red hair and a freakish nose, you're hardly an eligible bachelor. That isn't even taking into account your _empty_ account."

Hermione shoved her trolley forward. She felt the eerie cool wash of illusionary magic brush across her, as she passed through the transitional wall between Muggle and Magical.

She released her held breath, unable to stop herself from searching the masses.

The platform was devoid of Muggles, save for a few confused looking parents. Most parents had robes, or at least one robed parent. Were she to guess, she'd say there were half the students she was used to seeing.

Unless they'd all boarded the train already, that is.

"Where's Ron?" Mrs. Weasley looked left and right, genuine terror in her eyes.

"He ran into someone," Hermione adjusted her trolley out of the way, and down the platform. There was still ten minutes or so until the train left, but she had dragged this farewell on long enough.

"We should find Neville and Luna," Ginny pointed to the train, as if she could read minds.

"Yes, yes, just wait until your brother comes through."

Mrs. Weasley stared around, her anxiety clear in her sharp movements. Ginny and Harry mumbled small promises.

It was sweet to see her friends so happy.

Molly was torn on the matter, as she shot Harry and Ginny a look every few seconds. She smiled and frowned in rotation, anxious about her children no matter how old they had gotten.

Hermione was trapped in her sadness, centered around the absence of her parents. She buried those feelings most days, but it hit her worst as she stared at the Hogwarts Express. It had been a year, hadn't it?

Or was it two?

Ron emerged with a red face and even redder ears. He refused to speak, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Malfoy followed him through, and any confusion disappeared.

Malfoy sped past them, no barbs, no explanation.

"He's a right git." Ginny scoffed. "Shame he's so cute." And she nudged Hermione, who popped out of her pouting.

Another round of hugs and farewells overtook their group, as Molly cuddled Harry and Ginny. When the rotund woman rounded on Hermione, she received a firm look. The stare melted, as she pulled Hermione closer, however cautious it may be.

Hermione did love Mrs. Weasley, and the same was given in kind. But it'd never be the same affection that she held for Harry, or for her children.

Ron remained static, as he stared down the platform. Hermione mumbled a goodbye, which broke whatever his focus had been.

He bent down, low enough to kiss the corner of her mouth, the one that twitched when she was mad, the one she favored with her Sugar Quill.

He kept his gaze pointed away, from her, annoyed that she'd ditched him with Malfoy, annoyed that she hadn't stood up for him.

“Shall we find a cabin?” Ginny asked, her smile wide and her hands on her hips.

Hermione nodded, as they climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are super appreciated!


	5. smoked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are super appreciated!

> _ **September 1st, 1998. Were the carriages always this small?** _

When she had made her peace with never returning to Hogwarts last year, she’d shoved The Hogwarts Express into a little box in her head, along with the library, the Great Hall and the Gryffindor Common Room. But as she looked around the warm-toned carriage, with its magical sconces and dated wallpaper, she felt the same swell of excitement as she always had.

She could hear the frantic chatter of fellow students, who were eager to catch one another up on their summers apart. She could pick out words, about who had done what, who was dating whom, who’d broken up. It was so painfully mundane, and she was happy for it.

They deserved a little mundane, in all the misery.

She followed Ginny's lead as they passed from cabin to cabin. Each one held familiar faces though none were familiar enough.

As they slid the door shut to the twelfth cabin along, a stern boy with cropped brown hair approached them.

Ginny flattened to the wall to allow him to pass, but he stopped in front of her.

"Go on, McRory, I won't trip you."

"I came to find you."

"Oh, er, I have a boyfriend still,” she dropped her voice, to mumble, “like I told you last year."

Hermione stared out the window, to avoid the conversation altogether. She pretended the bleak English countryside was of the utmost importance.

"You're meant to be in the Prefect meeting." He crossed his arms and tapped his foot, the picture of a prissy Prefect. “As I expected, you _ forgot_.”

Hermione hoped she didn't look as bratty as he did right now, his chest puffed out with his badge on show.

"Can't you just give me notes?" Ginny pouted.

"Go on Gin, it doesn’t take long." Hermione waved her hands towards her friend.

She watched Ginny disappear up the train with her Prefect partner, and her confidence waned. She couldn’t be shy, she had roamed the train alone plenty of times in the past. She would fine Luna and Neville — and the sound of that wasn’t as exciting as she’d once thought.

In truth, she would’ve preferred to spend the trip alone with her books.

(As if she hadn't done that for two weeks straight.)

Each compartment held a few students, though she couldn't seem to find her friends until she reached the open area.

Because of course they’d gravitate to the huge, open areas, packed with the rowdier Gryffindors and impressionable Hufflepuffs. There were silver and green streaks amidst the warmer hues, and Hermione had to look twice.

Slytherins were mixed in with Gryffindors, as if it were normal for them to be friends.

_ A small miracle_, she smiled.

The houses had always jumbled up as the years went on. They could eat at whatever tables they so chose, but most stuck to their houses as it was common to be friends with your own house.

But after last year, such divisions seemed to have dissolved. She watched a Gryffindor boy kiss the knuckles of a Slytherin girl, and she caught herself before she stared too hard.

Perhaps things had changed in her year away.

“Hermione,” Luna’s voice wafted over the loud crowds, a cut up magazine in front of her.

Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom sat with her, as well as several Ravenclaw girls she’d recognized from her year but their names escaped her.

There was no _ room_, however, and she felt her heart beat a little too quickly.

“You good, Hermione?” Neville asked, a cheeky smile shot up at her.

“Bet you’re excited to get back to classes.” Dean matched his smile, a hand beneath his chin.

“I am,” Hermione nodded, her hands clasped around the leather strap of her satchel. She looked up and down the corridor of the too-noisy train, and at the packed seats they’d settled in to.

“I hope they got rid of the tapestries,” Neville swallowed hard, his teeth exposed as he lost himself to memories. “The ones that showed how to torture Muggles.”

“Oh, yes, I heard someone set them on fire.” Luna interlocked her fingers, a serene smile on her face. "They were quite flammable... I was told."

Hermione followed the conversation with eyes but not her ears. She could hear the mumbles behind her, of boys from Hufflepuff who gawked at the quartet. She lifted her chin, and shifted her attention.

“Yeah, it’s her,” one boy muttered.

“Blimey, the photos don’t do her justice.”

“The photos are usually from the front, not the back.”

“Don’t see that ring though, bet she said no.”

“Think I could take a crack then?”

A round of giggles, as if she were so lost in the noise that she’d miss the comment. She wished she hadn’t, her nails dug into her palms. Her skin went hot, embarrassed and sick all at once.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Neville moved, to stand up. “Take my seat, if you like.”

“She can sit with us,” one of the boys behind her cut in, to pat at the cushions beside them.

“Actually, I’m quite fine.” Hermione cracked her jaw from how hard she clenched her teeth together. "Tell Ginny I went to find a private compartment, if you see her."

"Of course," Luna nodded, dreamily.

Hermione turned towards the last carriage. Several boys moved to escort her at once, as they fought between themselves over who would have the honour.

"I'm fine on my own," she waved them off. "Thank you."

They were fifth years, or sixth years. Not even _ close _ to her age, and she was sorely reminded of how she shouldn’t be here. She was almost nineteen, with creepy little fifth years — _ awful_.

She slammed the compartment door behind her, her skin still on fire. The back car, which had fewer compartments, would be more likely empty.

Traditionally, it was the Slytherin portion of the train. It also was the worst for motion, as it seemed to hit corners harder than the rest of the train.

Of the five compartments on this carriage, three had couples in them. The first two were simply chatting, soft and quiet, and she apologized each time.

One couple was in such a state of undress, she hadn’t had a chance to close the door herself. It instead closed with a flick of a wand, so hard that she heard a window crack.

“Have some decency!” She shouted at the window, but the blinds snapped shut.

She fumed to the next compartment, which had a group of nervous first years whose robes had yet to be decorated. They pitched wide eyed looks of terror at Hermione when she peeked in.

“Sorry about that.”

“Please don’t yell at us, we didn’t do anything,” one girl sobbed, as she clutched to a six-legged plushie of a lizard-dog-thing. It was enough to distract from her oversized front teeth and obscenely freckled face.

“Sorry,” Hermione’s hand flexed on the doorframe, nails bit into the wood.

_ Oh, sweet child, I hope this school is kinder to you than it was to me. _

She passed onto the final compartment, with blackened windows from some magical mist. She frowned, her knuckles tapped against the glass.

She prayed it wasn’t another couple out to repopulate the wizarding world.

No one responded, good or bad, and so she tested the door. To her surprise, it slid freely. She braced herself for another interlocked couple, but was pleasantly surprised to find someone reading.

And then unpleasantly peeved, because of fucking _ course _ it was Draco.

He sat immobile by the window seat with a small black book balanced on his thigh. He had his leg kicked up, against the seat ahead of him. If he had heard her open the door, he failed to make it known.

"You shouldn't put your feet on the seats."

Draco didn't look at her, and instead flipped the page of his book.

"Excuse me, you shouldn't put your feet on the seat, it's rude."

Draco, who she demoted mentally to Malfoy, set his other foot onto the seat.

“What if someone wanted to sit there?”

“Must you make a show out of everything?” Malfoy swivelled, to look over her once. “Who would want to sit in here, with _ me _?”

Hermione burst through the doors, and fell with the grace of a Confunded elephant. She attributed that to the train, which seemed to pivot a hundred and eighty degrees all at once. Her hip bumped his ankle off the seat, and he shot her a frown.

“Why did you invite me to brunch with Emily?” She busied herself with a book, which had a post-it note poked out from the side. She set it on the seat next to her, but didn’t open it.

“I didn’t invite you to brunch.” Malfoy stuck his thumb between the pages, his head lofted to provide an optimal ‘looking-down-my-nose-at-you’ angle.

“Emily said — “

“I saw you outside, and I decided that rather than have you stare at me from a table nearby, you could sit _ with _me this time.” He smirked, and she wanted to slap him. “All that twisting must have hurt your neck.”

Hermione dug her nails into the seat beneath her, her satchel in her lap. She had gotten more of Malfoy in the past two weeks than she could stand, and his face kicked her back to the war, to the time she’d spent on his drawing room floor, and — 

Her head dropped, panic locked in her chest.

“It was a joke, Granger.”

Hermione flexed her fingers against the seat, her forearm on fire, her heart too quick in her chest.

Her breathing evened out, and she refused to meet Malfoy’s eye. Instead she wiped at her face, and shot up from her seat.

“I’m sorry to intrude.”

“Hermione.”

Hermione snapped her gaze onto Malfoy — _ Malfoy! _ — who had just used her first name. She hadn’t even thought that he knew it, and her mind warped around the sounds. He had refused to say it thousands of times, but most memorable, he’d refused to use it when she would have…

When his family could have been spared so much, and their lives put into the lap of Voldemort’s luxury.

She stared him down, with deadly precision, as if she could distill his intent from sight alone. He stared back, resigned and distant as he had been in the book store.

“You can’t be out there, can you?” He spoke, softer than she’d ever heard him speak. “Why?”

Hermione looked at Malfoy and the seat she’d lept from, the one he’d allowed her to take. He framed his elbows on his knees, so much less cruel than she remembered.

But she put it back into him, she built back that nastiness that sneering way that he’d speak about her and her family, all the awful things he’d done to her…

“What’re you getting at?”

Malfoy shrugged, pale tongue darted between his lips. He remained seated, his arm thrown over the seat behind him, and his head angled to look at her in full.

"What's your problem." Hermione stamped her foot, and immediately wished she hadn't. 

“This isn’t the part of the train Gryffindors tend to travel.” He adjusted, and she noticed the faint silver threads that detailed the hems of his shirt. “If I were you, I’d be out there, enjoying the limelight while it lasts.”

“There’s no limelight.”

Malfoy scoffed, his brow arched at her. “Really now? You’re in the papers more than specials on dragon dung. You, Potter, it’s all people talk about.”

“And what? You’re upset your family’s only been mentioned three times since the Battle for Hogwarts?”

The train snapped around a corner, and Hermione tumbled over again, into the seat she’d vacated. She landed with a huff, and almost missed the look he gave her.

“I just mean, the trials were mentioned, but…”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me?” He sounded flattered, rather than disgusted. She wanted him to be disgusted. It would be easier to deal with.

“I notice things, as I read,” she adjusted her grip on her satchel, her appearance harried from the train’s jittering trail.

“What they say in the papers is irrelevant,” he waved a hand. “People’re bought far easier than they like to believe.”

“So you have been paying them off, to keep quiet.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, to give her a stern look. “Perhaps a little quiet is what my family needs after all that’s happened.”

“Your family?” Hermione’s voice rattled in her ribs, watery and so much worse than she wanted it to sound.

Malfoy arched his brows, higher than she’d known possible.

“All I want is to be left alone to study,” Hermione shoved a thick chunk of her hair behind her ear, her teeth bared. “D’you think I want people staring at me, looking for a ring, asking if Ron and I — “

“Oh, I’m so sorry, it must be so hard for you.” He drawled, his eyes rolled as he resumed his reading.

“It is hard, just because it isn’t the same for you — “

“T_he same for me? _” Malfoy hissed, as he looked to her with the utmost disgust. “You preach forgiveness, but you’re terrified of me.”

Hermione stared at him, her mouth pinched shut and her eyes wide.

The thick black smoke around the windows swirled, broader and thicker, until it was a wall. She looked to it, and then back at Malfoy. He loomed over her while still seated, which worsened as he stood.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Hermione frowned, her brows furrowed deeply.

“Are you sure about that?” He drew his wand, and pointed it at her the same way he had in the cafe.

“What are you trying to prove here, Malfoy?”

“What did you think I was going to do you, at the cafe?” He kept the wand trained on her, which made her hand itch. “Why did Weasley feel the urge to _ threaten _ me, to keep away from you?”

“We have a history — “

“When have I ever _ hurt _ you?” He spoke in clear-cut syllables, cold in his delivery.

“You jinxed my teeth.”

“I hit you by mistake,” he answered, without thought.

Hermione tried to think of a time, when he’d set out to hurt her with magic. He slung hurtful words far easier, and she could bring any of them up, but he’d dismiss it. She didn’t even have to speak to know that.

In truth, she didn’t know what this power play was, but she left her wand holstered, her jaw tight and her eyes fixed onto his. It was difficult to maintain, given how he seemed to bore right into her with something as simple as eye contact.

The way he said her name echoed in the compartment, and the smoke continued to swirl.

“I do believe in forgiveness,” Hermione fidgeted with her thumbs. “If someone is truly sorry.”

Silence hung between them as Hermione stared him down, fire behind her eyes as she watched his wand lower. He tucked it back into his breast pocket, anger bubbled away beneath the surface.

“I don’t think being ‘sorry’ is enough.” Malfoy flexed a hand, his signet Malfoy ring aglitter in the dim light.

“It can be,” she said. “For some people.”

The train took another hard turn and sudden jerk, and Hermione found herself faced with Draco.

His lenient posture as he brooded left him framed around her, his hand on the wall above her head, and the other on the chair beside her. Their faces remained a decent space apart, thanks to his long limbs. The heat of her breath contrasted with his, as if he’d been chilled from the inside out.

He looked terrified of their proximity; of her.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course.” He shot back to his seat, a tinge to his cheeks and a frown on his face. It wasn’t a very _ Malfoy _ thing to stumble, she suspected. But the train resumed it’s pace, and she wondered what had caused the jerk to begin with.

Cruel fate, perhaps.

“Ten points from — ” Ginny burst through the swirls of smoke, and coughed at the thickness of it. “Slytherin!”

“Pardon?” Malfoy looked up at her, his expression laced with apathy.

“I’ve just been saying that to every compartment, until I found — you!” She pointed at Malfoy, her wand backwards and her robes off-center. She continued to hack and wheeze, laden with smoke.

Malfoy disappated the effect, and glared daggers at Hermione.

“Actually, I just figured it’d be a Slytherin couple making out, ‘cause that’s usually who’s back here, but,” Ginny exhaled, able to breathe now the smoke had vanished. “I really just wanted my lovely Hermione back, so this is a bonus.”

Hermione found herself yanked out of her seat, elbows interlocked with Ginny’s.

“I kicked some first years out of a compartment, made them go sit with another group of first years.”

“Ginny! That’s an abuse of power.”

“That’s friendship,” she hummed. “For them and for me.”

Malfoy strained in his seat, as if he were about to object, but settled back. He resumed his reading, his gaze fixed on the book in front of him.

“Wait, before we go,” she waved a hand at Ginny. “Who was the man with you, in the cafe?”

“A family friend.”

And the doors slammed shut behind them.

Hermione felt the emptiness of that farewell, in that there was none at all. She accompanied Ginny, who was determined to complain about the Prefect meeting, and to complain about Malfoy, and complain about everything that came to mind.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, afraid she’d missed something in all that.

But she had left a gift, at least. A peace offering that she had meant to hand across, with some snippy one-liner. But she hadn’t trusted her tongue, or her memory.

So instead she had unpacked a book onto the seat beside her; a book on the mating habits of giants, and a post-it note.

_ Potential dating advice for securing your future Mrs. Malfoy. _

_ H.G. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's rather strange, because no matter how much I write for them, I never feel like it's enough but also it's too much. I hope you can sense that Draco has made changes behind the scenes, without it being too drastic or out of character. I would argue (and will cover) the fact that thru OotP thru to DH, he went through a lot of formative and perspective-altering events. Especially regarding his view of magical vs. non-magical people, that is, Wizards versus Muggles.
> 
> I would love to info dump and explain everything from his perspective and be like THAT'S WHY X Y Z but I really want to keep this purely a Hermione POV. His family and personal events will play a part in all this, though I may have to revise and review the story at large to ensure it's all chronological. I am trying to keep to proper dates, but also it's meant to be fiction and fantasy.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Kudos and comments are super appreciated!


	6. scorned sorting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I endlessly listened to "We Hear Them Talking" by General Vibe while writing this, just thought you ought to know.

> _ **September 1st, 1998. Like most days wherein you travel, this day is dragging but also going too quickly.** _

Hermione felt the sting of questions she’d meant to ask, lost to her when Malfoy had locked eyes with her. She had meant to ask about the trials, about his parents, about last year, about why he’d _ helped _ them…

And then her own name echoed in her head. It was a word that she’d not even thought it possible for him to say, something on the same level of taboo as Voldemort.

In truth, it was somehow worse to hear her name from his lips. It’d have been easier if he’d simply called her ‘Mudblood’. At least she could explain that, and brush it aside with the same resolute distaste from the past. 

The carriage Ginny had cleared out was at the other end of the train, near where they’d started their search for Luna and Neville. Coincidentally, the duo were in the carriage, on either side. They smiled up at Hermione and Ginny as they slipped inside.

It was cozy, and should feel nice.

Instead, Hermione worried her hair into a tight braid, her nails bitten to the quick. 

She’d beaten the habit years ago, but it resurfaced sometime in February.

She looked at Ginny’s, which were similarly worn down from anxious nips.

“How was your meeting?”

“Bo-ring,” Ginny yawned, wide and slack. She rested her arm behind Luna and toyed with the girl’s long, dirty blonde locks. It curled like wreaths of hay, atop the crown of her head, and cascaded down her back. She also had an exceptionally huge magnifying glass strapped to her head, with a mechanism to adjust it much like a jeweler.

In spite of this awkward apparatus, Luna had a style about her. It wasn’t to Hermione’s taste, but neither was Ginny’s deep leather jacket atop her Hogwarts uniform. Her robes were thrown over the seat behind her, and her ripped jeans exposed freckled knees. She had thick combat boots that made her slimmer by comparison.

Still, she was a little thicker than Hermione, and taller. Luna was shorter and thinner. Hermione stared at the pair of them, unsure how they found their rhythm in all the madness.

Hermione just… Was. She felt stuck between the awkward fourteen-year-old and this image of a fearless war heroine. But she still had knickers with a little cartoon cat on the bum, because her mother had thought they were cute, and it was one of the few things she had left —

She felt so pathetic.

She adjusted her posture, awkward that her sweater made her boxy and her hair was too wild. She still felt half-formed, save for the bone-deep weariness that kept her awake most nights.

“Lucy Perkins got Head Girl,” Ginny thumbed her badge, her gaze transfixed just past the badge. “D’you know her, Luna?”

“Mmh,” Luna, furrowed her brow and pouted her lips, into the softest look of deep thinking. “I shared a dorm with her. She used to turn my pillows into pudding.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped, anger and misplaced jealousy roused deep within her. “And she got Head Girl?”

“She was quite smart.” Luna shrugged a shoulder, her lips curled. She picked at the piece of her makeshift puzzle, her tongue poked out to one side. “I don’t think she did that to everyone. And I never complained. She’d at least make it fun to wake up. Even if it’d be a little messy, at first…”

Her voice seemed to vaporize, as Hermione lost her focus.

A Head Girl was meant to be someone who would stand up to bullies, and uphold the values of the school. They were meant to lead, to protect, to inspire. How could someone who did such childish things be called Head Girl?

Why wasn’t it _ her _ — 

Her nails dug into her palms.

She wasn’t owed anything. They couldn’t stop the progress of the school, merely because she’d ditched for a year. They couldn’t grant her special favors, and in truth, it was a stupid little bit of metal.

She didn’t care one bit.

She didn’t.

“No surprise McRory got all sobby because he wasn’t Head Boy.” Ginny rolled her eyes, her mouth wide. “What a git.”

“So who is it, then?”

“Phillip Meyers. He used to throw sand into my cauldron like he was trying to make it explode. One time I saw him pick a pimple and — eugh, I don’t wanna think about it.” Ginny stuck her tongue out, in disgust. “Equally prattish as McRory, but he’s a Slytherin, can you believe! A Slytherin Head Boy, after last year?” She scoffed.

Hermione had never felt so out of sorts, given the names were so outside of her realm of knowledge. She liked to know people, and she generally felt pretty switched on, but she’d never really seen these people.

Perhaps in her sixth year, when they’d been first promoted to Prefects, but…

“I wouldn’t stress about it, Hermione.” Ginny reached across, to tap Hermione’s knee. “You can take the year to focus on classes and absolutely _ ruin _ your exams.”

“Ruin?”

“Good ruin, like they’ll have to add a letter to the N.E.W.T. just for you.”

Hermione’s lips twitched out of habit, her cheeks tinged red and her neck followed suit.

“Maybe you can focus a certain blondie…” Ginny wiggled her brow.

“I’m flattered, but I don’t think Hermione and I would make a good match.”

Ginny and Hermione slow blinked at Luna, who burst into giggles.

“Was that a good joke?” She looked to Neville, who was blushing himself.

“Great, Luna,” he mumbled, dirt-bitten nails dug into the rough-hewn sweater vest he’d worn on such a hot autumn day. He had a Herbology textbook balanced on his knee, which he had been so enraptured by. 

"Honestly, Hermione, I won't judge you if you like Draco," Ginny raised her hands, as if she anticipated an attack.

"You would," Hermione exhaled. "And I don't."

"You just keep happening to bump into one another." Ginny kicked her feet up onto the spare seat across from her, with Luna at her right and Neville beside Hermione. “And I just found you all alone with him in the _ Slytherin _ part of the train.”

“The train doesn’t have sections.” Hermione pulled her own book out as if it’d dissuade the conversation.

“Still, you were alone with him, and he was bright pink.” Ginny squinted at her friend as if she were trying to read her through Legilimency.

"I don’t control what colour he turns." Hermione flipped a page, her eyes fixed on the book in front of her. It was a jumble of letters and no direction. She wished she could read right now.

"I think he could use someone like you, Hermione." Luna had transferred her snippets of newspaper, which she rearranged on her lap. If there was a pattern to her placement, Hermione couldn't see it.

"I'm trying to move on from last year," she thumbed her spot in her book, to look between the others.

"He said hello to me," Neville cut in. "He said he hoped I'd been okay."

Hermione almost snapped her head off with how fast she pivoted her attention. "Why is he nice to you!"

"Oh, um," Neville fumbled for words, his lips pursed.

"I mean, that's good, of course, I'm glad he was nice to you," Hermione babbled. "But he exists to infuriate me, and he acts all mysterious as if he's hiding something."

"Maybe that's why he's nice to me." Neville shrugged. "I said hello, when I saw him. He said it back."

"Isn't that a little weird," Hermione frowned. "That he's just -- nice?"

Neville shrugged, focused on his hands. "I think we all went through a lot, last year," he scratched the back of his neck, his lips downturned. "Us at Hogwarts, and you out in the world. Maybe he's just tired."

"Tired?"

"Of following what his parents did." He paused, to scratch at the collar of his sweater. "What his father did."

"You don't think Mrs. Malfoy was complicit?" Hermione bit back the urge to fight with Neville, because in reality, there was no fight to be had. She agreed with him, but the words sounded ridiculous out loud.

"It wasn't like the half-blood kids were the ones getting picked on," Ginny blinked, slow and soft. "It was everyone." She ran her hand over her neck, where a deep scar ran from her left ear to her shoulder.

She had spilled something in Potions, and the results had been thrown on her. She didn't speak about it much, and Hermione understood.

"It was never about blood purity," Luna spoke, soberer than she usually sounded. "It was always about control and violence."

The cabin went quiet, as the four of them watched Hogsmeade fade into view. The little lanterns spread along the platform, and the forest grew wild and unforgiving in all directions.

"I hope there's pudding."

As Ginny and Neville collected the bags from above them Hermione noticed the little notes Luna had combined from her shredded articles.

"What is all this, Luna?"

"A puzzle," she pointed. "These pieces line up if you squint and turn your head. And if you move this here..." She shifted the papers.

As it was the Daily Prophet, which shifted as you read it and stories would seem to fade and form depending on the angle, a few words faded and new ones emerged.

"They hide messages in their articles."

"Who's they?"

"I'm not sure," Luna curled her index finger around the tip of her nose, her thumb beneath her chin. "But they've been doing it for months."

Hermione saw something about blood and about curses. She didn't believe Luna, in truth.

If you cut and changed the facts enough, anything could look like another thing. It was a fun trick, perhaps, but not something to linger on for longer than this.

Luna collected up her scraps, which she'd mended together. She passed one piece to Hermione, which simply said _ "kissed grim ward" _.

"These are from January." She looked bright and pleased, like a puppy who seemed pleased next to a carpet it’d peed on.

"Thank you Luna."

The words shifted; _ "safe shack" _.

Hermione stuffed the paper into her book and pushed the thought aside altogether.

* * *

Thestrals were more beautiful than Hermione expected.

But she understood why Harry had been so taken aback by them.

She cried most of the way to the castle, and no one questioned it.

There wasn't much of an answer to give.

* * *

It didn’t feel real, not as Hermione stepped out of her carriage, or as Ginny split off to say hello to some friends. It didn’t feel real as she walked across the grounds, over the bridge they’d constructed in lieu of the crooked one that had fallen in the battle.

It especially didn’t feel real as she stared down the Great Hall, with the shattered hourglasses that had been removed, and the empty spots where paintings had been destroyed beyond repair. She could see where parts of the castle had been reformed, and she had to look away from the spot where they’d found Fred.

Her fingers dug into her palm, as she drowned in her robes, and drowned in the crowd.

The tables were still in the same order, but the windows at the end of the hall were decidedly different. They had different myths depicted in the stained glass windows. The candles above looked fresh, instead of centuries old.

The constellations across the enchanted sky were the same, and she focused on them as she found her way to her usual spot.

But there were third years there.

It was out of the way of the fireplace, but not too far from the front. She could remember the stone she’d have to lift her foot to miss, so she’d not trip. She had to sit with her legs angled, so as to avoid the ghost of a chicken who’d sometimes arise from beneath the floor.

And she moved on, in search of an empty spot. She was saved from herself when Ginny waved her down, to sit with Neville, Dean, and a few other sixth — rather, Seventh years.

But they weren’t her year.

It wasn’t Lavender Brown, with her obnoxious lip gloss and fluffy book bag, which had a new wizard’s face pinned to the straps whenever her fancies changed. It wasn’t Rochelle, one of the Gryffindor girls who slept in the other dorms, who’d jinx Hermione’s hair into knots, and laugh as she detangled them. They'd both died, there was no way she'd see them back here.

It wasn’t Seamus, with his hair a little singed, and it wasn’t Harry with wide, worried green eyes, too thin from the holidays and so excited to be here. It wasn’t Ron, who’d move his arm like he wanted to put it around her, but he was too afraid to.

And she saw Draco, across the hall, the worst of her experiences within Hogwarts, as he too struggled to find a seat.

Their eyes met, if only briefly, and he broke the eye contact first as he sat beside Blaise, and Daphne, and Theo, and Pansy , and how was it that he got to keep his friends?

“Good evening, everyone.” Professor McGonagall welcomed them.

Not Dumbledore; of course not.

Part of her had been expecting him, stupidly.

“I first want to welcome you all to Hogwarts, whether it has been your home for these past few years, or if it is new to you.” She spoke, uncertain, her voice wavered. She was a professor and a confident woman, but Hermione could hear the shock. She had never wanted to be Headmistress, and rarely spoke to the students unless there was an emergency. She wasn't one for speeches, or for grand welcomes. She could handle a few dozen First years, with wide eyes and rosy cheeks, but how did you welcome back victims to the place they'd been tortured?

Perhaps she, much like Hermione, had been expecting Dumbledore to stroll through the huge wooden doors, to laugh about something he’d had to tend to, and that things could simply be once more.

“For those who were here last year, please know that this school was not founded on hatred or fear. We encourage education, unity, and tolerance above all else.” She fussed with the hem of her robes and lifted her chin. “We here at Hogwarts want to afford respect to those who fell to make our future possible, but we cannot linger there.”

She looked over the hall of students, who all seemed on the edge of their seats for different reasons.

“As our previous Headmaster would say, it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” She adjusted her hat, her throat tensed. “We cannot wait for the past to come back; we must make a future, a brighter and better future, one where what has happened may never happen again.”

Hermione’s gaze shifted from McGonagall, along with the table of teachers. She saw a slew of new faces, so many she failed to spot.

Professor Burbage, of Muggle Studies; Professor Vector, of Arithmancy; Madame Hooch, of Flying. Her eyes roved the lineup as if she could explain away their absence. Perhaps they chose to retire, or they stepped down from their positions.

It didn’t mean anything. Not everyone had died.

She sat in silence as McGonagall walked the new students through the process of being sorted. She perked at the sight of the Sorting Hat, half-black, charred from the year before. It still had movement to it, and a few patches had been sewn across it.

But it didn’t look good.

Could it die?

As the Hat began to sing, as it tended to do, the voice that emerged was haunting. There was no cheerful banter or light in its lilt. Instead, it sounded like it was reading a eulogy, drawn from the year it had suffered.

_"Though once there were four founders,_  
_Who thought best to split their creed, _  
_Based on selfish wit and brash courage, _  
_They were negligent of what they need._

_Precious souls who worked too hard,_  
_For what little would come their way, _  
_Aloof others learned all they could, _  
_But had too little to say._

_Borrow from your burrows_  
_And invest in your nest _  
_Forget your pits and dens, _  
_For what's best is best._

_These students learn from four houses,_  
_Within a school of one. _  
_They mustn't stand divided, _  
_Or risk being overcome._

_Do not fall prey to Gryffindor,_  
_Where the brave act without thought, _  
_Their lives replaced with borrow time, _  
_Of what their ferocity has wrought._

_Avoid the pits of Slytherin,_  
_Laced with shadows and with hate. _  
_Where cunningness has bred contempt, _  
_And left their heirs too ingrate._

_Ignore the crawl of Hufflepuff,_  
_With best interests in mind, _  
_Do not muddle with their best intentions, _  
_And waste a life in kind._

_Replace your ache for Ravenclaw,_  
_Talons drawn along the rules. _  
_Too many riddles and too many rhymes, _  
_Has turned them all to fools._

_Time must begin again,_  
_Where the young shall rule the old. _  
_And listen to your heart of hearts, _  
_And do not as you're told.”_

No one applauded.

The Sorting proceeded, deft and resolute. The only people Hermione picked out was the little blonde girl she’d seen at the Potions store and the one who’d clutched their plush on the train. They were Slytherin and Gryffindor respectively, and she wished that meant what it once had.

Instead, the applause that resounded was polite and empty, only half the joy that came from a usual Sorting. She blamed that on the sparse numbers, as barely thirty students had arrived. Usually, the classes were fifty or more, with some almost a hundred strong... 

And based on what Hermione had seen, of the records before the war, some classes were upwards of two hundred.

What had happened?

The meal proceeded, with the tables filled as if it were their last meal. The plates shone and the food was delicious.

At least that hadn’t changed.

Hermione sat outward, her attention fixed across the hall. The tables were emptier than she liked, but it made sense. People hadn’t wanted to come back, people didn’t feel safe. She had to wonder if there was more to it, but that thought evaporated as her gaze locked with Malfoy across the hall.

It wasn’t like it had been in the past, where he’d try to catch her eye to flash a dirty hand gesture or sneer a slur with fae fire to make his point.

It was resigned, aloof, and as out of place as she felt.

Worst of all, he didn’t look away. 

She wished he would.

She would give anything for him to curl his lip in her direction, to flip her off and latch onto Pansy. She wanted that for him, for his Prefect badge to catch the light as he shoved at Crabbe who’d stolen one of his eggs.

But Crabbe was dead and there was no badge.

He had top marks, back when he tried.

Maybe he had the same resigned disappointment, of what things could have been like if the world had only held itself together for a few years more. If the world had taken it’s time to pump on the gas and to have Hogwarts remain as a happy, safe place.

Hermione didn't want an apology from him, as much as he was unwilling to provide one. Hate begot fear, and fear would beget violence. Nothing existed to suggest they had to become friends or even acquaintances. It could be like it had been in the past, distant animosity between the tables, like right now.

He blinked, slow and distant, and she realized she’d been staring, too.

It was her who looked away first, as Headmistress McGonagall stood once more. Their plates cleared, and her voice rose above the ruckus.

"And," McGonanal cleared her throat, as she pushed up from the Headmistress's Chair. Her clever eyes scoped the students, who fell silent without her instruction. "With that, I ask that you all stand, to follow your respective Prefects to your appropriate dormitories. Given the — unusual circumstances of this year, we will have another assembly on Friday evening. Any staffing changes will be announced then, as we await their arrival."

_ Their teachers weren’t here yet? _ Hermione scowled. She had to fight how obvious her disquiet was, as everyone burst into giggles and gossip about what they’d do instead of classes. Would there even be classes?

The oldest Prefects stood, as they usually did, to head their houses in their correct directions. Hermione stood out of habit but remained in her spot.

It wasn’t her place.

Instead, Hermione watched a confused Ginny forget to stand, her head on her hand as she snoozed on the spot.

A Seventh year boy approached her, his polished Prefect badge on the hem of his robe. "Uh, are you going to -- "

Ginny shot up, her hands on the table in front of her. "I know where the dormitories are."

"Yes, and it's your duty to lead the younger students there."

"Right. Right, right, right," Ginny tapped at her chest, as her thumb hit metal. She winced, as she looked defeated at the idea.

As if being a Prefect were punishment, Hermione smiled inward. She didn't approve of that attitude, but Ginny's red-faced chagrin made up for it.

"Eighth years," McGonnagal lofted. "You will accompany me to the First Floor History of Magic classroom; the one that Professor Binns used to inhabit."

Hermione met Neville's eye, as confused as he looked.

_ Used to inhabit?_

She, along with Dean and Neville, stood from their table. She had hoped more Gryffindors would return. She was disappointed, as it was only herself, Dean, Neville and Parvarti, who was with another Gryffindor girl whom Hermione had pointedly ignored since Fourth year.

The one who'd spread a rumour that Hermione had used a Love Potion to earn Krum's attention.

Abigail Snowden, that was her name.

It felt so childish now, the grudge…

She shoved it aside and follow the group of Eighth years, as they wound their way towards the History of Magic classroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you to those who've commented thus far, and to those who've subscribed. I feel rather intrusive being so frequent with these updates, and I may slow down on them soon, but for the moment I'm updating as I see fit! I don't want to lose steam, but I also don't want to write myself into a corner, or make a foolish mistake. This is especially true with how I'm setting up the Eighth year, as I don't want to make a mistake and cut someone out, or include someone, by mistake.
> 
> Also, a bunch of teachers are being chopped and changed, so I need to ensure I keep that consistent and have it make sense! In any case, ah, this has been so fun! I'm so excited for you all to see the Eighth year set up. ;)
> 
> Comments & kudos are sorely appreciated!


	7. dorm by the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Eighth year system is _A Thing_. They're not quite students, not quite... Well, you'll see.

> _ **September 1st, 1998. How is it possible for a day to be so long?** _

The History of Magic classroom had new brickwork inlaid around the outside, with fresher stones patched in where the castle had crumbled. There were new windows, stained glass ones that depicted the major events in Wizarding history. They were a pretty addition, even in the darkness that had necessitated them. Along the outermost wall was an assortment of shelves, though most were half-filled. An assortment of books remained on the floor in boxes or in piles.

All the titles all reflected different cultural movements or wars.

The Goblin Uprising. The Centaur Purge. The Merlin Era. The Daggerwood Massacre.

She wondered how the history books would catalogue their war. Their class of twenty whittled down from eighty was a good indication of what it'd feature.

The rustles of robes and voices spun around the classroom, as Headmistress McGonagall waited at the front of the classroom. She wasn't waiting on anything in particular.

Perhaps it was just nice for her, to see her students gathered once again.

"First," McGonangal's voice cut crisp over their heads, like they were first years again, about to be sorted. "I'd like to say how proud I am of you all, for deciding to return here and for your part in what went on these past few years."

A murmur of dissent, as the Slytherins recoiled from the other three houses. Not that all the Slytherins had sought to injure others, or that the other houses had acted to protect themselves. It was a baked in hostility, brought on by years of heated competition.

"I can't imagine this must be easy for you, to return here to pursue your education. By no means was it necessary, but you have my deepest respect and pride for entrusting us within Hogwarts so soon after last year."

Hermione swivelled to stare at Blaise, who had mumbled something to Draco. The blonde responded with an elbow to his friend's side, decisive and exact.

"Hogwarts doesn't traditionally allow for Eighth years such as yourselves. However, while this is unprecedented, it has been prepared for," she waved an arm, as the immense chalkboard behind her began to fill. "Dumbledore arranged some practices during his final days, and for that, we can all be thankful."

Hermione yanked a small notepad and Muggle pen from her pocket, one that she'd use at coffee shops to avoid suspicion. She began to note down the information, as quick as she could.

"There is, officially, no such thing as an Eighth years within Hogwarts. We cannot alter the magic within the school to return you to your Seventh year, nor can we allow you to exist within your usual dormitories. Without the Trace, many of you are outside of our methods of detection."

Confusion begun, in the form of mumbles and straightened backs.

"Guess we can head out, hm?" Blaise stretched, his arm around a pretty Ravenclaw girl. She giggled, and Hermione groaned.

"People get held back, though." Neville worked a piece of his robes between his fingers, looking so much smaller than he had at dinner.

"Yes Mr. Longbottom, people can be held back, but that is rare. To be held back a year would involve months of warnings and Ministry intervention. It also goes on record, and can occlude future opportunities. It isn't something to be doled out lightly."

Neville's ears turned red, and Hermione tried to forget the time that he'd asked her about it. He had always been afraid he'd be held back. 

It was a far graver sentence that even Muggle schools, which usually just held you back a year, until you proved yourself capable. That was still a deep fear of Hermione's, the idea of not being _enough_.

To be held back at Hogwarts was a punishment, not a chance to learn at your own pace.

"The school is warded against recognized of-age wizards from residing within the dorms. We have children in there as young as ten, so to have young adults sharing a space, it would create room for power dynamics none of us would want."

"Not all of us bully first years," Dean scoffed.

She waved a hand at him. "I understand, some of you are well beyond the age of seventeen, while some have just turned that age. To have you considered true Seventh years, it would forfeit many of your magical and legal rights, which -- "

There were murmurs of dissent.

"Which would disrupt your lives both inside and out of the school. Additionally, some of you suffered through your Seventh year last year, but have decided to return to gain a real education, and to resit your N.E.W.T. exams. We at Hogwarts and those within the Ministry feel that would be unfair to the Seventh years this year, and would add strain to the class sizes."

Hermione alternated between jotting down what McGonagall had said, and short-handing the chalkboard notes.

There's were laws cited, as well as several pages of the Hogwarts: A History, the updated edition that had been released a month ago in light of the battle Hogwarts had endured.

(It would be updated again, she guessed. So much had changed within the school even in the past few minutes, let alone the past few years.)

"We've altered an existing process, so as to allow you a balance of accountability and freedom." McGonagall pointed to the board. "Did any of you look into the apprentice position offered by the school post-graduation?"

Neville raised his hand, as did several other students.

"Excellent -- for you, this will be especially exciting. You're all considered professors-in-training."

The room bottomed out, as everyone sounded excited or moreover, shocked. 

"It's a position given to graduating Seventh years who wish to apprentice, without the pressure of leaving school or remaining a student."

Daphne Greengrass held Pansy Parkinson to her chest, both beside themselves.

"Can we wear our own clothes then?"

"If appropriate," McGonagall arched a brow. "But this is a delicate arrangement, not to be taken lightly."

Hermione had looked into this avenue herself, years ago. She loved to learn but hated to teach, as no one could keep up with her. She had to repeat herself and break down her work to a tragic degree. Her tone was unkind and clipped, and she wasn't good with children, either.

But to liberally apply it to twenty students at once?

"You retain your rights as full witches and wizards while permitted within the school. Your classes are still a requirement, though you will sit in on existing Seventh year classes. You'll be expected to complete homework, but class participation won't be graded."

Neville breathed a sigh of relief and stiffened all at once.

"You have no recognized house, have no impact on points and cannot compete in Quidditch nor student clubs. You may of course still be friends with students, but ensure you don't take advantage of your benefits to benefit them." As she spoke, a list formed on the board. "You're welcome to go to Hogsmeade at your own discretion, or go away on weekends, but I'd advise you to treat this freedom with restraint. We also ask you tell someone of your plans, a Professor more specifically."

Hermione could not care less about the loss of clubs, but she almost shot through the roof at being a quasi-professor.

"Why are we being given such luxuries?" Hermione asked, before she could catch the question. She was wary of these terms, as if it were too good to be true.

The room took on the same energy as when Hermione would ask if there was anything they could do for additional credit.

"We do not wish to punish you for things that were outside of your control, Ms. Granger. All of you suffered last year, whether you were within these walls or outside of them." McGonagall folded her hands in front of herself. "And by all rights, none of you had to return. You chose to come here, whether you knew what it meant or not. Think of it as a reward, for your dedication to your education, and to what this school once stood for."

Hermione trusted McGonagall, enough to accept this flowery explanation. Logic dictated that they couldn't afford to mess up their existing Seventh years with returning students, and that the school's reputation at large had suffered.

This cushy kindness in her so-called Eighth year would trend well in the papers, no doubt, and everyone would tell their friends how wonderful it was to be back at Hogwarts.

"There is more to be discussed, but tomorrow is -- perhaps a little different than your usual first day."

Hermione felt woozy, from all the changes that she'd had thrust upon her.

"We've dedicated the first week within Hogwarts to exploring the school; that is, a chance for new students to find their way, to practice their routes to class. They may also explore the grounds, and the library." She smiled, a deep pride that Hermione felt eased by. "One of the first changes I've made, as Headmistress."

There was a collective hum of excitement.

"It does mean, however, you several of your holidays during the school year, however."

And the hum turned to a groan.

And for a split second, Hermione felt like she was at Hogwarts again.

"And, before I show you to your dorm, I'm proud to announce that Hermione Granger will act as the head of your year," she cut a smart smile across the room, so the group parted. "So as to keep you all honest and accountable."

"O-Of course, Headmistress." A deep, low hiss of uncomfortable laughter bubbled out of Hermione, as everyone rounded to glare at her. Some were playful, others were sincere.

Oh yes, she was definitely back.

* * *

Rather than inside the castle, their dorms were out in the grounds.

The deep chill of autumn air had set in, as the blistering heat subsided. It was well after nine in the evening now, as Headmistress McGonagall led them with her head held high.

Hermione cast a look over her shoulder at the massive structure, seemingly unaffected from the battle several months ago.

It was illusionary magic, she surmised. She noticed it at first, in how similar it looked to the castle she'd remembered from her sixth year. 

The moonlight shimmered around the edges, if you squinted. The bridge in the distance, that crossed the chasm over to the Quidditch field, had not yet been repaired. The Quidditch pitch was still rubble and soot. She could see masses of saplings by the Forbidden forest, freshly planted. These saplings were still bigger than her, in height and width.

"Do you mind, Granger?" Pansy breathed, with a tone of playfulness rather than a threat. "Didn't those parents of yours ever teach you that it's rude to stare."

_Those parents of yours._

It skirted the edge of prejudice and playful, which made her skin crawl. She realized in her interest of the castle, she'd been staring straight through the back line of Slytherins. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish, and snapped it shut without response.

"Pans," Malfoy whispered, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. "Don't."

"She's the one staring like," and Pansy mocked Hermione's expression, over the top as her eyes boggled around and her mouth hung open.

"Take it as a compliment, then." Blaise shrugged. "Perhaps she likes you."

Hermione's neck grew hot, beneath her Gryffindor scarlet with gold pinstripes. It felt out of place now.

"Oh please, if I wanted a Gryffindor girl, I'd take my chances with the Weasley one first. Have you seen her arse on a broomstick?"

"The lady has a point."

"Oh Blaise, how sweet, you've finally stopped calling me Pugsy."

"Ah, we've all turned over a new leaf, haven't we!"

This wasn't fair. Hermione had Neville, sure, and Dean, but they weren't the same as Harry and Ron. Her heart ached as she heard the Slytherin crowd banter and berate her, like no time had passed. Like no one had died, and they were still in the midst of their O.W.L.s.

These were the children of war criminals and of Death Eaters, who'd survived Azkaban, who had proved they deserved a second chance. 

They couldn't really be happy to be back here, but the alternative was so much worse.

The walk wasn't quiet, as the houses mingled into an indiscernible soup. Blaise had snatched a Hufflepuff girl's hat to get her attention, which caused a Ravenclaw boy to chase after him to get it back, and for McGonagall to shout after them.

Otherwise, it was harmless chatter, about their holidays, about their families. But no one mentioned the war directly, and if it came up, the conversation would soften and dissipate. When the words returned, it'd be about the innocuous things; classes, birthdays, hobbies.

Malfoy remained silent, as did Hermione.

Up until they were greeted with an unused greenhouse, with overgrown plants and thick frosted glass windows.

"Welcome to your dorms."

* * *

> ** _September 2nd, 1998. Sleep would be nice, if only for a few minutes._ **

Hermione lay awake in the pitch black of her new room, alongside four other girls in their respective beds. She felt like she was back in the tent, out in The Forest of Dean, her ears perked for the slightest of sounds. It was a Tuesday after all, and Tuesdays were her turn to have first watch.

Each would snore, or fumble, and her breath would hitch. She swiped her fingers across her eyes, alone in a dorm with so many people.

She wasn't crying; it was just, one of those nights.

She swiped again, to rid her eyes of her unwarranted tears.

The dorm was gorgeous, and packed full of planters and ingredients. The sun would shine through the roof during the day, she gathered, but you couldn't see the interior from the outside. The windows would allow people to peer out, through the overgrown vines that looked more like art nouveau drawings than any real architecture.

One corner was dedicated to bookshelves, with ten or so old classroom desks lined up beside them. There was no fireplace, however. There was a Glimmertree that sprouted between the tiles and the skewed throw rugs. It glimmered based on the season (currently a brilliant orange and yellow), and its leaves acted as the basis for many simple potion experiments due to the versatility.

They had no paintings on the walls, but there were ancient notes scrawled on aged parchment. They held diagrams of all sorts of plants and the creatures that would prey upon them. There were notes about the moon phases, and when to harvest what.

There was a loft above the entrance, which had once housed planters but instead had cushions and couches. There were several small tables and tea sets up there, along with a little basket with a handwritten note that read; _"If you are hungry, I will feed you."_

Blaise had snapped his fingers at it, as a dare, and the low pop of magical currents formed a huge cinnamon roll, wrapped up in a shimmery, clear bag. He ate it happily, and wouldn't stop shouting about how good it had been.

No one else had been brave enough to try it, though she did see Neville pluck a small green apple and some grapes from it on his way to bed.

She ignored the way he whispered 'thank you' to it.

And then there was the wrought iron gate that stood before the steep stone staircase, that dipped beneath the soil and into their allotted rooms. She had watched everyone else rush down in eager excitement, to claim a bed and find their things.

Hermione had stood in the middle of their greenhouse dorm, overwhelmed by the life of it all, and how much like the outside it smelled like.

She turned on the spot, over and over. It was nothing like her bed in the Gryffindor tower, which smelled of old oak and embers. The carved windows were enchanted with the night sky, but she could see where the illusion ended. She stared at the edges, desperate to find faults.

And she turned again, restless in her sheets. She stared at the metal-framed bed with white gauze curtains, the knowledge she was in a dungeon...

And she heard it. 

"Shut up, Blaise."

She wished she hadn't, but she couldn't mistake it.

Hermione climbed out of bed, pajama-clad and bleary eyed. She snatched up her wand, and slipped off her bed. No one had stirred, and in truth, the noise wasn't too loud. If she were asleep, she might have missed it.

All she could hear were whispers. Hermione leaned against the door, her cheek pressed to the hawthorn wood.

"But he can't be dead, can he?"

"I haven't any idea."

"No body, no proof." That was Blaise, and he sounded content. "Hope he's dead, but, doesn't matter either way."

A chair shifted, as someone shifted their weight.

"You gonna stick around?"

"I have to."

"Right, house arrest or Hogwarts, how will you ever choose."

Malfoy hissed some curse words at Blaise, but Hermione failed to catch them.

As the conversation bounced back and forth, Hermione managed to pinpoint that it was Blaise and Draco. How arrogant of them, to stay up late and laugh about someone's death. The unfortunate part was that they'd moved on from the topic, with not enough for her to surmise who they meant.

Plenty of Death Eaters had turned up dead after the war, by their own hand or by the incensed public. Such incidents were treated as crimes, of course, but no one seemed to put them high on the priority list to investigate.

The conversation remained one-sided, as Blaise babbled about his summer in Italy while Draco would scoff or murmur when prompted.

And Hermione sat, perplexed on the bottom step, just out of view. There were two alcoves either side of the stairs, where giant pots sat rotund and empty. She'd was squeezed it and the wall, her knees to her chest and her palm to her chin.

"You see Granger, taking notes?"

The silence hung where a response was expected, and Hermione swore she could heat her heartbeat.

"Wonder if she'll let me check them out," a cry of pain popped out from Blaise, and a scuffle of cloth and wood sounded. "Don't be jealous, she probably has them in triplicate."

"Why are you so insufferable?"

"With the shift in sensibilities, that allows a wide pool of eligible girls that I would have otherwise been forbidden from."

"Blood purity really kept you away from -- from Muggleborn?" Malfoy punctuated his stumble with a short sniff. Hermione did her best to bite back pride, as he did the bare minimum.

"Kept me from talking about it. God, the shags Potter and I had after Quidditch -- "

They laughed, impolite and crass, and Hermione decided she wanted out of this eavesdropping. She shuffled out from the wall, her pajamas ridden up around her calves.

The words echoed in her head, of house arrests and the dead come alive. 


	8. magical meets muggle.

> _ **September 2nd, 1998. What is that sound?** _

Hermione woke to two distinct sounds; the first being the soft flutter of wings, which was then followed by a thud. She stared across from her, her eyes unfocused, at the enchanted window that led no-where.

A few seconds passed before a blur of brown slammed into it.

“Pigwidgeon?”

Hermione pushed up from her bed, her eye sight blurred from a lack of sleep. She watched him bounce against the enchanted window, the one that was pressed into the dungeon wall. In true Pigwidgeon fashion, he'd managed to get in through the door that was cracked open, but seemed to have forgotten how to get out.

He'd also forgotten that he was meant to allow the receiver to, well, receive. He was much like a relay runner who kept the baton as if he were the real winner because of it.

"He's cute," Bethany spoke from the corner of her mouth, too shy to show her teeth. She had braces, a fate Hermione had once been destined for. Her bed was next to Hermione’s and then Emily was next to her.

"Mh, cute and stupid. Just the way I like them," Pansy drawled, from across the rows. She was across from Hermione, with Daphne’s bed beside hers. It was all lined up, though a spare bed sat in the corner by the entrance.

“Owls?” Daphne was in a long, green robe that made her look like a rich widow.

“Owls, boys,” Pansy stretched as wide and tall as she could manage, and yawned like a banshee. Her bed was already decorated with green silks and black lace, as if her Slytherin pride _ must _ follow her.

“Is he yours, Hermione?” Bethany sat cross-legged, a fat little cat in her lap. The cat couldn’t take it’s gaze off of Pig, it’s greedy yellow eyes trained to the treat.

“Not exactly,” Hermione coaxed Pig back to her, with the corner of a pastry she’d wrapped up yesterday. He buried his whole face into it, and she winced. It provided her a chance to unwrap the letter and to remember exactly where she was.

_ Hermione, _

_ I'm not good at letters and I didn't want to ask Harry because he's even worse. Remember when he practically went off at us that one summer and we couldn't reply? He was a git, but, that isn’t what I’m writing about, that’d be weird… Sending an owl just to complain about Harry. _

_ Is this dictation spell working? I dunno, hopefully, uh — right. _

_ Anyway, I wanted you to have the ring, because it’s yours and I got it for you and everything. It's on Pig's other leg. He lost a parcel once and I don't trust him. _

Hermione checked, and sure enough the ring was around his ankle, shrunk so it resembled a cuff. She wandlessly cast _ engorgio _ and _ reducto _ in quick succession without thought, so it was better sized for her fingers.

Bethany stared at her, pure amusement baked into the Hufflepuff girl's expression. The cat stared at Pig, it’s little fuzzy mittens pointed at him as if to ask for someone to pass the owl over.

Pig blinked up at Hermione, as if waiting for her to give the ring back. She scratched behind his ear and he fell over into her lap, more like a puppy than an owl.

The cat looked betrayed.

_ I really didn't mean to joke about a proposal to Rita Skeeter. She was just there when I went to pick it up from the ring guy, and she made a comment and we had some banter. She led me, and you know full well she does that, but that doesn't fix things. I don’t wanna be fighting a million miles away because that’s just… Exhausting, honestly. _

_ The ring. Right. I never got to talk to you about it. But, the real reason I got this ring is because it's like the coins you made us for Dumbledore's Army. The idea was that if you ever needed me, you could change the engraving and it'd heat up and show what was going on. I’ve got one, and they can communicate, a little… A few words, maybe a place, or a name, but it’s pretty wicked. _

_ I've nearly lost you in the past, a bunch of dumb ways, and even as a friend (ideally more but look I'm not gonna twist your arm over it). _

_ If anything happens at Hogwarts, if you need me or Harry, just let us know with that ring. Even if you don't wanna wear it, or do some crazy magic to it so it's a teacup with legs. I'll always have mine on, until I know you're back with us. _

_ I'm sorry, again, for everything. _

_ Ron. _

Hermione twirled the ring between her fingers, to examine the blue sapphires inlaid in silver. There was a rich crest embossed around it, and she had to wonder if he’d picked sapphire because it was her birthstone, or because it was her favorite colour.

Perhaps it was a mistake, but her eyes still lit up as she twirled it. It was far prettier than she wanted to admit, though it felt strange coming from Ron of all people.

"Oh my God, he proposed. I knew it." Pansy shot up, her eyes blown wide with shock. "The Weasel actually proposed!"

"Oh, shut up." Hermione blinked back her surprise, at the letter and the intent. She examined it, where the words "be safe" were engraved inside the band. In truth, it was something she should have made far earlier when she'd first made those coins for Dumbledore's Army.

But the exchange of specific words hadn't been within her skill set, then. Such magic would be impossible for even McGonagall, or Professor Flickwick.

How had Ron managed such a feat?

She toyed with it in her palm but thought better than to put it on. She instead conjured a silver chain from the foil of the pastry, a relatively easy conversion given how close the alloys were.

“Why not wear it?” Bethany frowned.

“I don’t want to lose it,” Hermione looked down at it, with the metal pinched between her fingers.

_ Or she didn’t want to lose herself to it. _

Hermione thought of the blackened hand that Dumbledore had tried to disguise, and the rot that formed from the locket that Voldemort had invested his soul into. She was apprehensive to trust jewelry, no matter the source.

Emily emerged through the hawthorn door that led into the girls’ corridor. A sitting area lay just down the hall, with an attached bathroom and storage closet for brooms and the like. A mirrored version of this arrangement was set up for the boys', she imagined.

"What's all the screaming about?"

"How horrid you look right now," Pansy sniffed, loud and obnoxious. She raked her eyes across Emily and turned away as if the mere sight was enough to make her ill.

“Did you work out which was your photogenic side, hm?” Emily gave her a once-over, her head raised a touch higher. “I doubt Azkaban will let you use the back of your head for a mug shot.”

“I look good from _ all _ angles.”

“It’s been years Pansy, give it a rest.”

Bethany had scooped up Pig, to feed him some of the pastry. Her cat had run off when it realized the pint-sized owl was a fellow familiar, rather than prey.

With two Hufflepuffs and two Slytherins, Hermione was outnumbered. She, Parvarti and Abigail formed the only Gryffindor girls to have returned, and — sure, there was room, in the other dorm, but Hermione had developed a soft spot for Bethany and Emily.

It balanced out the haughty Slytherin energy across the room.

Plus, she just hated Abigail.

* * *

The first day back at Hogwarts was usually Hermione’s favorite. It marked the start of a new school year, and the pursuit of higher education.

Now, it was simply boring.

And the word stung.

How could Hogwarts be boring?

Hermione had showered and tended to her teeth and her hair, as best as she could. She had nothing of great importance to do, and the only place she could see herself was the library. She twirled the ring on her necklace, curious about the magic upon it.

If it were really like the coins she had made, she should be able to deduce what curses or hexes had been placed on it.

As Hermione emerged from the dorms, she ran into Paige Yoon, a Ravenclaw girl. She was petite, _ so _ tiny, and looked more like a First year than an Eighth year. Hermione only knew she was in their year as her birthday was always the day before Hermione’s.

“Are you going to the Library?” Paige frowned, not at Hermione, just — at the world, as if the Earth itself had wronged her.

“I was.”

“It’s closed.”

Hermione almost passed out, her eyelashes fluttering.

“Pardon?”

“I went to see how it was, but,” Paige tucked two thick chunks of black hair behind her ears, which knocked her oversized wireframe glasses. She would have looked like Harry’s twin, were it not for her deep black eyes compared to his emerald green. “It’s under repairs.”

“What are we supposed to do for a _ week _?” Hermione hissed, her hands bunched by her sides.

“You can borrow _ fiction _ books, but anything past Astronomy is being checked,” Paige rolled her eyes, her entire body moved with the motion.

“Checked?”

“For curses and hexes and all that tripe from last semester.” Paige shoved her large circular glasses up onto her head, to massage her eyes.

Hermione hadn’t thought much on what had happened last year, but the whole school seemed to have been turned upside-down at the behest of Snape and his Death Eaters.

“Why did they even bring us back here,” she mumbled back to her dorm, her shoulders squared and her hands by her sides. “I’m going back to bed.”

It was seven in the morning.

Hermione shrugged off Paige’s complaints. She could still go to the Library then, and at least see for herself what her place had been reduced to. She passed through their greenhouse, the one littered with small seating areas and with so many plants.

Neville sat, his eyes bloodshot and a bloom in hand. It seemed to have been preserved, from the way it shone. 

“Queen of the Night,” he grinned, slanted and exhausted all at once. “Really… Rare…”

Hermione paused to pick up a blanket, to toss it over Neville who had fallen asleep in his arm chair. She was pleased for him at least. This greenhouse seemed like it’d been made for him. But in a way, it’d been made for _ all _ of them.

There were the etchings and ancient texts, along with the lofts above for the Ravenclaws. There was a basket of plentiful snacks and the cozy underground sitting area for the girls and boys each for the Hufflepuffs. There were their bedrooms, which seemed most similar to the Slytherin’s dorms.

She searched for the Gryffindor in this greenhouse, and found nothing.

* * *

“The Library is off-limits,” Madame Pince greeted Hermione. She counted it as a greeting, as the librarian didn’t screech at her about detention or threaten her life on sight.

“Yes, but,” Hermione bopped on the spot, to peek past Madame Pince’s arms. She peeked left and right, and found her efforts fruitless. All she could see was the roped curtains and the shelves she’d once considered home.

“You’ll have access again in a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” Hermione’s voice cracked, her teeth bared. “If you’ll let me help, I’m sure I could have it done in — “

“There are professionals handling this, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione felt her chest tighten and her anxiety skyrocket. It wasn’t until she pivoted that she relaxed, and settled into a whole other range of emotions. Because Hermione Granger thrived in the hunt for knowledge and in the pursuit of answers, and she was sickened to think such a thing had been ruined for her.

Because it was that man.

_ The man _.

That man, the man, that stupid awful man, the Malfoy family friend, the lunch partner, the one who she’d had her eye stuck on for minutes or hours, the one with deep blue eyes, who’s skin was sallow and his smirk so familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

And he had the audacity to speak her name, as if it were common knowledge; as if they’d met before.

And yes, in truth, her name was something like common knowledge to the Wizarding world, given her efforts in the war, but who the _ fuck _ was he.

And he had the _ audacity _, beyond her name, beyond the cool nonchalance, to smirk at her as he passed. It wasn’t a handsome smirk, and she felt ill to receive it, but he seemed to read her, in and out, and he seemed pleased that she was frazzled.

Her hair felt like it sparked from the mere sight of him.

“Finally,” Madame Pince exhaled, as if he were someone she knew, as if it were so easy.

“I had matters to attend to.” He spoke, slow and serene, and she could pick out that finishing school bravado. He entered the curtained area, no fanfare, no explanation.

“How did he know my name!”

“Aren’t you used to people knowing who you are yet?” Madame Pince sniffed, too loud even for herself. She turned to disappear behind the curtain, into to the expansive library that Hermione wanted nothing more than to disappear into, too.

“Who is he!” Hermione shouted, and Madame Pince shot her a deadly look.

“You’ll be careful to respect your new professors, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione threw her hands up into the air, and stared around as if in search of a fight. With no one around, and only a slip of fabric to keep her out of the library, she decided there was no better way to spend her first day back at Hogwarts.

Breaking into a restricted area in the pursuit of knowledge.

Despite the fact she expected there to be some warding spell, she was able to slip straight into the stacks. She kept her head low and her breathing quiet as she snuck into the section about magical herbs.

She had a reason to be here, she had a reason, she had simply lost it in the midst of her indignance. She stilled, to listen for the sound of footsteps. She needed a book on deciphering enchanted jewelry. Or, if that was too specific, she needed something on the topic of detecting dark magic.

It was easier for her to sneak through the library, as she knew the sections like the back of her hand. She hadn’t read all the books, as there were far too many and not all of them were relevant, but she had a good idea of where to start.

The ring bounced against her chest as she crept along the zoological aisle, and began to hit the intersection of Wizarding cultures within the modern world. That is, the new-age magic that meant nothing to real witches and wizards. This section was most useful to those in Muggle Studies, and as she rounded the corner, she let out a sob.

Her hands snapped over her mouth, as a half-formed crater with gooey black pus formed from the stacks. The black, she surmised, was the ink that had been enchanted and then melted. The books were those tied to Muggles, from stories to biographies.

She had come here first year, to giggle about how wrong some wizards had gotten details.

She had come here second year, when she was homesick in the midst of the Muggleborn attacks.

She had come here third year, when the Time Turner was too much and she wanted to relax.

She hadn’t come here in her fourth year, or fifth. She’d stumbled here during her sixth year after she’d seen Ron and Lavender wrapped around one another in the courtyard one day, and she wondered if she’d be in as much pain if she’d have just stuck to the Muggle world.

That had been the day she’d seen Draco here, index finger dipped between the pages about Muggle universities, his signet ring dug into the leather of the book.

She sobbed then for very different reasons. It hurt for different reasons, too.

The Library was wide and packed enough that her little whimpers were eaten up by the pages of the books. Even with the hole blown clear into the shelves, she was spared the exposure of someone hearing her.

Instead she rushed towards the detection of magic, a small section where Lupin had sent them in third year. Half the books were missing and torn pages left to rot on the floor. She grabbed one book, a basic manual on the rudimentary detection of ill-intended magic, and tucked it beneath her arm.

It was then she heard the voices, carried through the library on brash chords.

“This should be resolved by the end of the week.”

“You really think so?”

“It depends.” The voice was the same one that had rattled her before.

It was that man, and McGonagall.

“What is your priority, Headmistress?”

“It is difficult to say, Selwyn. Safety, of course. I want students to be able to borrow a book without fear of a curse.”

The name _ Selwyn _ spun in Hermione’s head, round and round, as she picked at her memories and tried to place where she’d heard it before. 

Hermione peeked through an empty spot on the shelves, her book held as a shield between herself and those in conversation. She could barely make out McGonagall, in her rich green robes.

“With Mr. Malfoy and his direction, we at least have the common areas disarmed.” The Selwyn man had his armed crossed, and tapped his fingers on the crook of his elbow. When he stood beside Draco, the resemblance was harder to place but still there. "Given he was clever enough to document their destruction for future reversal."

"I didn't do anything of the sort," Malfoy snapped back. "I was just..."

"You did what you had to." This was Professor McGonagall, and the words sounded so strange from her. Not because they were untrue, but because they came so easy.

“I just want this done.” Malfoy spoke, sounding far more childish while stood between two adults. He fidgeted with his hands, his head dipped low.

Hermione rested her back against the shelves, peeved. She could almost taste the names, the answers, but they floated just beyond her fingertips. She continued towards the exit, her book on malicious magic detection in hand.

As she reached the curtains, the ring heated against her chest. She plucked at it to keep it away from her.

_ “Library?” _

She stepped out of the bounds of the library and willed the message “_no” _ in response.

She didn’t trust that little bit of metal, not one bit.

She hadn’t liked it when Ron first mentioned it, and she didn’t much care for it now, either. Her message cooled and no response formed. She kept the book tucked firm against her side, as she headed back towards the…

She stopped, directionless.

Without active thought, she had begun to walk towards the Gryffindor dorm. She pivoted, her chin held high as she instead made a path for the Great Hall, eager to get into her book and down to the bottom of this.

First, the ring.

Then _ Professor Selwyn. _

Somewhere in the middle of that, she’d work out what Draco was up to, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I'm excited about this story! I can't stop writing it and wanting to share more of it, to get to the meat of the matter with you all. I do apologize for the skint amount of Dramione in these early chapters! I hope the mystery of it doesn't feel too tense or unresolved.
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated!


	9. forgotten flower.

> _**September 2nd, 1998. Great Hall, greater problems.** _

Hermione had gotten used to the altered windows behind the teachers' table and the too-new candles that had yet to melt fully. It wasn't any easier to stomach, but at least she was prepared for it as she entered the Great Hall.

As the week ahead was slated to be an orientation week for all students. With no regimented classes to be at, and an air of extra holidays, only a few students were awake.

She could see Ginny, which surprised her.

Hermione moved along the Gryffindor table and took her spot next to Ginny. She moved, though not much, so she could peek up at Hermione.

"They can't make me do patrols at six in the morning," Ginny whined out each vowel, her arms folded in front of her.

"There's no morning patrols, Ginny." Hermione adjusted the book that she'd had cloaked beneath her robes, though she didn't open it. She set another book atop it, and poured herself some peppermint tea. It appeared without request, and she whispered her thanks.

"Wait. What do you mean -- " Ginny gawked, down the table, at no one in particular. "McRory. He told me we had to patrol for -- I'm gonna kill him. Has to be done."

"You weren't always a Prefect, were you?"

"Merlin, no, I wasn't," Ginny cracked her neck, her fingers angled like claws against the wood. "Jessica Sneed was, but her and her family..."

Though the story remained untold, it was one of the few that Hermione had read about. And the mention of her name jogged her memory, which was otherwise packed with close friends they'd lost.

Jessica had been a little bright-faced girl who had two giant black plaits either side of her head. She had warm copper skin and golden eyes, and she had been so desperately excited to be a Prefect.

She had given Hermione beautifully conjured paper flowers one time. it had been when she'd found Hermione sobbing after a patrol. Ron had been exceptionally prattish that day, and decided to skive patrol to see Lavender.

Hermione still had one of those flowers, somewhere in her expanded purse. It smelled of jasmine and had once glowed gold. 

Jessica had turned up dead sometime last year, near Christmas time. Her body had turned up, long with her parents. Her father had been a Squib, as had his father.

But she had been magical, inside and out.

The flower must have dissappated, she grimly realized.

"I think McGonagall just picked me 'cause she knew my name." Ginny cracked her neck, left and right. "Where were you last night?"

"Oh, Eighth years are..." Hermione searched for the words, her fingers grasped at an invisible quill. "I suppose we're considered professors-in-training, as McGonagall put it."

"So you're not a student?" Ginny squinted at Hermione, and shifted away just a little. "You're a teacher!" Hermione bat at her shoulder, and Ginny leaned back towards her.

"Not really, but we're meant to sit in on lessons and we still have homework and exams."

"Then how is that any different?"

"Well, I'm not a Prefect, or able to join any clubs or Quidditch," she tapped her fingers, and raised a brow at Ginny. "Not that I was ever out to be on a Quidditch team."

"Ah, I think you'd make a wonderful Beater, Granger." A smooth Scottish voice rolled behind them, piqued with amusement. "I hear you've slapped a fair few Slytherins around in your time."

Hermione and Ginny pivoted in their seats, to see Oliver Wood with a broom cocked over his shoulder. Nostalgia strangled Hermione's ability to speak, unsure how to greet him.

They weren't close, and in truth, Hermione held mild contempt for Wood. He stressed Harry and Ron out on repeat, and all in the interest of the Quidditch Cup. He was a graceful flier, of course, and he was talented in that. And he was handsome in the same way a lion was, rugged and rough-hewn.

She narrowed her eyes up at him, and he smiled like he was about to ask if Harry had skipped practice.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione frowned, though she accepted a sturdy handshake when he offered out his hand. He gave Ginny the same treatment, though he looked far burlier in Muggle jeans and a jumper. He wore an open robe, simple and black, and Hermione could almost picture him as a student once more.

"Ah, well, they needed a flying instructor, and I needed a job."

"Aren't you playing for Puddlemere?" Ginny raised her brow at him, her lips slanted into a smile.

"Not uh, not for a little while yet." He hooked a pinky into his collar and exposed his clavicle. A pure black seam ran from the center of his collarbone down.

Hermione privately wondered how far it extended.

"What happened?"

Oliver adjusted his stance, and moved the broom to lean on it in front of himself instead. "A lot, Weasley." It was warmer when he said her name, though it reminded her of how he'd speak to her brothers before practice.

"A curse?"

"Aye," he shoved his weight off the broom, and exhaled loud and hard. "One of the Death Eaters didn't take too kindly to our fancy flying. Cast some awful hex up at us, I got the brunt of it."

Hermione looked over him, and noticed the slight wobble to his stance. He had been so sturdy before, like a tree that took rook with each step.

"The higher I go, the shakier I get. I'm working with ah, Professor Selwyn," he snapped his fingers, and pointed in the general direction of the teacher's table. Selwyn wasn't there, Hermione knew. "Makes for an awful Keeper, someone who can't control which hoop they're protecting."

"Will you be able to go back to it?" Hermione asked, worry-angled brows now knit together.

Oliver waved a meaty hand, and hooked his thumb into the loop of his jeans. "Eventually, maybe -- in all honesty, I'm just happy t'be alive."

Where Oliver had thrived in competition and perfection, she now saw a man marked by war. He didn't seem as high-strung as he once had, though she couldn't imagine he wanted to confess all his tragedies to two students on their first day.

"Better question, why are you here, Granger?" He looked her once-over, a brow cocked higher. "Did they hold you back for asking too many questions?"

Hermione mock-laughed, musical and irked. "I chose to come back!"

"I know. Shame for Potter and Weasley, I always figured you were their mother. What'll they do without you, dove?" he burst into laughter and kicked his broom up, to head towards the teacher's table.

Neither Ginny nor Hermione missed how he winked their way, his gaze bounced over Hermione more than once.

Hermione turned a shade of vermillion, her hands clenched on the table in front of her. He was friendly, and often spoke with her when he had to wait for Harry, or if they saw one another in the halls. He'd never winked at her, certainly, but that had been in jest.

Did she have some gene in her that drew the attention of Quidditch players?

"I think Wood likes you," Ginny gasped behind her hand, as she tried not to smile.

"I'm a student!"

"Not his student. He only works with First years. Plus, you're a student-teacher." Ginny shot a look over her shoulder, her lip worked between her teeth. "Ron would absolutely kill him if he saw that."

"Ron can eat a toad," Hermione glared up at the teacher's table, where Wood had settled down for eggs. He was in talks with a young red-headed witch, one whom Hermione recognized in a distant, dark way.

"Who's she?"

"Oh, that's Professor Ayers, she's the new Gryffindor Head of House. She came by and said hello to us last night." Ginny tore into some bacon strips that had appeared, as breakfast began.

"Oh, is she covering Muggle Studies?"

"Actually, Professor Binns vanished after the castle fell to pieces, and she's taking over until he comes back. Or, if he comes back." 

Hermione stared up at the woman, who was as red as her hair beside Wood. Whatever he'd said had caused a ripple of laughter, from Grubbly-Plank all the way to Flickwick. She had auburn hair, compared to Ginny's orange-red hair.

"I've met her before."

"I'm sure you have," Ginny cut up her sausage into bite-sized pieces, and slowed only to breathe. "I got Quidditch Captain, by the way."

Hermione broke her focus, to look at her best friend. She had many, but Ginny was her best in special ways. They had giggled about their crushes and shared simple beauty spells. She was the closest thing Hermione had to a sister.

"That's amazing," she beamed.

"They weren't too sure if they'd be able to even do Quidditch, so it didn't get sent out with th'letters, but," Ginny waggled her knife at her chest. "Check it out."

Next to her Prefect badge was a Quidditch Captain badge, which made Hermione's smile brighten. She was happy for her friend, for so many reasons, but it was just nice to see her happy. And not happy because of Harry, or because of menial things, but to have her efforts recognized.

She bit back the curl of jealousy, as she knew she had no badges, no accolades, just her intagible service to the school at large.

"Congratulations."

"I'm gonna make 'em bow to me," Ginny pointed to the sky with her knife, as if she were making a royal decree.

"You cannot."

"If they wanna be on my team, they gotta," Ginny resumed cutting her toast, dejected, as if she had no say in the rule she'd made up. "They gotta know who's Captain."

Hermione tossed her gaze, over and around, and avoided the Slytherin table pointedly. She instead busied herself with her toast and eggs, as well as her tea. She tucked her two Sickles beneath the plate, and frowned when they remained once the plate vanished.

Ginny and Hermione got to their feet, and looked around in tandem.

"What're your plans?" Ginny stretched, left and right. "I'm gonna go fly by the Forest. McGonagall said it's fine to fly within school grounds, so long as you keep close to where the pitch used to be. Just, not too high, not too fast, y'know..." Ginny smirked.

"Actually, I may join you."

"Oh." Ginny stared, surprised. "Are you gonna try to impress Wood with your flying skills?"

"No," Hermione smiled, privately. "I have a book I ought not to read in front of those who would deem it had been borrowed without permission."

Ginny's jaw as good as hit the floor as they exited the Great Hall. "You stole a _book_?"

"No!" Hermione waved her hands at Ginny, to keep her quiet.

"You stole a book from the Library, didn't you."

"Borrowed, and for good reason..."

Hermione explained how the Library was sectioned off, and how Malfoy and Selwyn had been there with McGonagall. They were tucked into an alcove just off to the side of the Great Hall, their head close together as Hermione spoke. It didn't strike Ginny as strange, that Draco had been enlisted to help undo the curses in place within the grounds.

"He was close to the Death Eaters," Ginny waved her hand. "While I was trying to get Dumbledore's Army back into practice, he was being dragged around by Snape. Maybe Snape told him what he had to do, once it was all over."

"You think Snape really planned that far ahead?" Hermione raised her brow. She didn't doubt the man had anticipated that the Dark Lord should fail, but then again, he'd not thought to ingest antivenom. His body was gone by the time they got to the boathouse to retrieve him, and it was presumed that he'd been burned up from the inside out.

Selwyn strode past them, his hair bunched back into a trim ponytail. He wore green robes, framed around the edges with silver.

"Any money that he'd the new Slytherin Head of House?" Hermione tapped her fingers against the spine of her book.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Ginny stepped out towards the main corridor, and back into view of the entrance hall. "Selwyn's a pure-blood family, most of them anyway. Lots of Slytherins, too."

Ginny waved herself off, as she headed off towards the Gryffindor tower. Hermione had declined to join her, mindful of the fact that she wasn't permitted into the Gryffindor common room. She didn't want to walk all the way up, only to be told to wait outside. It would hurt too much, and she couldn't stomach it.

Instead she sat outside the Great Hall, her books in her lap and her head dipped as she examined her ring. 

It was no more than five minutes before Malfoy approached, announced by his cleared throat.

"You can have your book back," he tossed the giant mating habits book onto the stone bench next to her, and set off towards the Great Hall without another word.

She gawked, at him, at the book, annoyed that he'd passed over her so easily. She picked it up, and it fumbled, as the slip of parchment fluttered from inside.

_I appreciate your concern regarding my future wife, but you may rest easy knowing it will never be, Granger. I hope you are happy with Hagrid, given you will have free reign of the grounds and the **Library**._

_D.M._

He couldn't know.

He didn't know.

Hermione's jaw clenched as she jumped up from her spot, to chase after Malfoy and toss the book straight at his head. But she had to wait on Ginny, and it would seem too desperate to chase him. She refused. Instead, she tucked the book against her 'borrowed' book, and waited in agitated silence for GInny to return.

* * *

Hermione spent the better part of the afternoon with her nose in the book that she'd taken. She tried every countercurse and diagnostics spell, and nothing seemed to work. There was no way to disengage the effect, though she had surmised it was a powerful spell. It was beyond the abilities of Ron, or anyone she could think of. This sort of magic was frowned upon, as immediate communication was either desperate or cunning, angled towards mischief. She wondered who had wrought the original ring, and by extension, the one that Ron had in his possession.

She resolved to send a letter back with Pig, to tell Ron that he shouldn't be using the ring without knowing exactly who had enchanted it. What if someone could read their messages, or track their locations? She was safe within Hogwarts, and knew that this was perhaps pedantic, but she'd spent a year in pursuit of cursed jewelry. It seemed strange for him to appear with this beautiful ring, which could transport messages in an instant.

Or, it could be a prank, and she was equally annoyed at that thought. It seemed genuine, but he had been moody and aggressive all the way to her departure.

Ginny sped around, practicing her maneuvers and working with several other Qudditch enthusiasts from Gryffindor. She was unsurprised when she saw Professor Selwyn approach, along with _Professor_ Wood. They waved hello as they passed, in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. If what she had heard in the library was true, he was here to counter the curses that kept Hogwarts trapped in it's battle-scarred form. She watched from a distance as he spent the better part of an hour, in search of the wards that prevented the pitch from being reformed.

By mid-afternoon, the wooden foundations had been returned to their original forms. Not to their fullest heights, but the core poles were unjinxed and replanted, the wood back to it's fresh, lacquered state.

Hermione twirled the ring between her fingers, and deduced her approach.

"Professor," Hermione called, a sweet smile on her face.

Wood, who had been enamored with the Gryffindors in the air, pivoted to smile at her. "Ah, _Ms. Granger_." He laughed.

"I meant, Professor Selwyn."

The man in green robes, slim and sharp compared to Wood, remained faced away. He was focused on the horizon, as if he could see things that no one else could.

"I think he's busy," Wood shrugged a shoulder, his hands on his hips. "What d'you need?"

"I was going to ask if he knew anything about a ring I received."

This caused Selwyn to turn, his brow arched and his lips pursed. She saw Lucius and Draco in him, in a flash, but it was a less refined angle. But the resemblance struck her, again and again.

"I just wanted to know if it's cursed." As Selwyn met her eye, he seemed to tear her apart with his gaze alone.

"You want to know if it's a Horcrux."

Wood's mouth yanked at the corners, teeth exposed. He stepped away from Hermione, his hands raised.

"It isn't." Selwyn tipped his head, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"How did you know what I was going to ask?" Hermione nearly stamped her foot, her hands bunched at her sides.

"You spent the past year with Potter and Weasley, hunting such things in the interest of saving the Wizarding world." The corner of his lips quirked, as if there was a joke she wasn't in on. "But I'm afraid your ring isn't special. Not in the way you hope it is."

"Why would I _want_ this to be a Horcrux?" Hermione didn't care if he was a Professor, she didn't care _who_ he was, he shouldn't make light of something so serious. Or something that he had no idea of, no concept of how immense and awful and --

"I have several guesses," Selwyn adjusted his sleeve, and let his arms go limp. "Is that all, Ms. Granger?"

"No!" Hermione's face had turned the same shade as her scarf, lined with wrinkles instead of gold. "It can transport messages, and I find that incredibly suspicious -- "

"I would argue it is a party trick. It could very well be enchanted, to detect any number of triggers. Sounds, smells, coordinates..." He tipped his head. "What makes you so sure it can send _specific_ messages?"

"It had the words 'be safe' on it, and then I went to -- to the Great Hall, and it changed to ask if I was there."

"Then my guess would be that someone enchanted it to locate where you are, by colloquial language, and then to parrot it back to you. Perhaps it's a prank." He smirked, wider. "Mr. Weasley is in leagues with pranksters, is he not."

The shock ran deep, as Hermione stared at this man, who picked her apart, piece by piece. The Weasleys were famous for their prank store, so that made sense, but she hated how he could pluck details about her from thin air. Wood stared between them, his brow furrowed as he failed to follow the conversation. He seemed torn between allowing it to continue and stepping in.

"How do you know _Ron_ sent it? I never said who."

"It was a guess, which you've confirmed."

"But how could you _know -- "_

"You were with him at that cafe, where you kept staring at Mr. Malfoy and myself. Which is incredibly rude, by the way -- I'm not sure if you parents were inclined to inform you." He exhaled, as if life was a burden. "His intentions to propose have been publicized, and by extension, it would make sense that he would be so sentimental as to provide you with jewelry. It matches the photo Rita Skeeter published, which," he raised a brow at her. "Leads us to why you hope it's a Horcrux, so when you destroy it, you can explain that it was evil, rather than your emotional maturity. Or, lack thereof. It would provide you another reason to ignore schooling and run wild, which is no doubt your _top_ priority."

Hermione spluttered, and she wished, desperately, that she could punch this man. If she hated Malfoy as a teenager, she despised this man. He reeked of ashes and of dirt, and looked worn to the bone.

"You may also wish to learn how to lie, or at least control your reactions." He smiled, and she hated that even more. "You would be a miserable spy; Gryffindors always wear their emotions on their sleeves. A shame, as I've heard you're a clever witch. Those who speak are only half as smart as those who listen."

Hermione searched his face, and found more of the same; he looked like a Malfoy, spoke like a Malfoy, and acted like a Malfoy. But he wasn't a Malfoy, was he? He was a Selwyn.

"Grimward..." Oliver exhaled, his jaw slack as he frowned at the miserable man beside him.

"Thank you, _Professor_." She exhaled heavily through her nose, her ring clamped tight within her fist. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before she pivoted, to rush her way back to the castle. She felt embarrassed, and she refused to cry in front of him. There was no reason to cry, no point in it. But he was wrong. There was something more to this ring, there had to be.

He'd not even looked at it; he'd not even _tried_.

Hermione yanked it so hard the silver chain broke and evaporated into dust. She willed a message through it.

_Who's Padfoot?_

She stared down at it, her lips pursed and her eyes wild. The metal heated between the meat of her fingers, as she did her best to crush it. It heated more, and more, and then she allowed her palm to relax. The message had shifted.

_Sirius. Why?_

A wild look of victory. She didn't want it to be a Horcrux, she wanted to believe in Ron, to believe that it was really him. And he had provided an answer, enough to satisfy her for now. She re-conjoured a chain, to loop it around her neck. In her haste and misery, she had arrived back in the Great Hall. A confused owl stood on the arm of Professor Ayers, who looked at Hermione with genuine concern.

"What's happened?" She approached, the owl bobbing in motion.

"Oh, I'm fine," Hermione lied.

"Ms. Granger?" Professor Ayers smiled, warm and kind. She had brilliant green eyes, that warmed Hermione's heart the second she looked into them. "I wish we'd met when you were -- um -- less..." And the woman tugged out a tissue from her pocket, from a little plastic packet that Muggles often kept on them. "This owl arrived for you, actually, though it seemed a bit lost..."

The owl allowed Hermione to pluck the ornate gold envelope from it's leg, with a Ministry seal stamped onto the back. Inside was a blank piece of paper, and a letter from Minister Kingsley. He apologized for his delayed response to her question, about her _puzzle _(regarding Minister Strauss) and said that he couldn't help with her. He said the best thing to do would be to burn the paper and start over.

Hermione raised a brow, tears dried out as she looked around.

Ayers perked, wide green eyes jumped between Hermione and the letter. "Oh, I was meant to tell you," she fussed with her pockets again, to pull out a small piece of parchment. "Your order of the phoenix tears arrived." And she winked.

If Hermione would make for a terrible spy, Professor Ayers was far worse.

She winked a second time, as if her point hadn't been clear.

"I got it."

"Oh." Professor Ayers blushed again, as if the colour red was the only one she knew. "Sorry. I'm new to... Okay. I'll be off. Nice to meet you. Bye, Hermione. I mean, Ms. Granger. Oh, if you need anything, just -- yep, you got it. You get it."

Hermione nodded, politely, and excused herself. She had a name, _Grimward Selwyn_, and a letter from Kingsley that could explain what exactly Minister Strauss had to do with the Malfoy family over the past few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would die for Ayers, just letting you all know. So many mysteries being added and explained! I pray for a chapter where Draco and Hermione can just banter like the dumbasses they are.


	10. papers please.

> _**September 3rd, 1998. There must be something to that paper...** _

By Thursday, Hermione had poured hours into the note from Kingsley. She was too proud to send another owl for a hint, so instead she relied upon the magical detection book she'd taken from the library. After countless enchantments and disenchantments to reveal a hidden meaning from the blank paper, she had nothing but a headache.

She couldn't decipher his point, if there was one at all.

Perhaps Strauss _wasn't_ all that important to the Malfoys, even though he had been the one to lead the investigation into the estate after they'd been arrested. Perhaps Kingsley's point had been genuine, that she was after useless information.

"What's all this, Hermione?"

"Hm?" Hermione looked up from her nook in the corner of the dorm's desks, the ones by the bookshelves and the southside wall. She had pieces of parchment scattered across a desk meant for four people, and several books stacked in the middle. She had two quills beside her, one enchanted with red ink and one with black. Clippings from the Daily Prophet added an extra layer of misery to her mystery, as the stories fluttered and changed as you shifted them around.

"All this homework," Emily laughed, her hand waved vaguely at the mess.

"Some light reading," Hermione dismissed, as her eyes skimmed over the Selwyn column. She had spent the better part of two days in search of the name _Grimward Selwyn_, the Malfoys and of this so-called Professor Ayers. On top of these names, she also had Strauss. Each name headed a column, and each column had dates or facts that seemed pertinent.

Strauss had been crossed out, as had Ayers. She was frustrated, which came through as she stabbed her quill too hard into the parchment.

"The term hasn't even begun yet," Emily approached Hermione, wrapped up in a Hufflepuff scarf with some pastries in hand.

Hermione, without thinking, shoved the papers and books into a tinier pile, wrapped up in her arms. She could sense the judgment from Emily, who stopped in her tracks.

They remained silent, with a stern frown on Emily's face while Hermione tried to look casual.

"It's just, a personal project." Hermione waved her hand, as she began to pack up the loose pieces of parchment into a leatherbound folder. "Private, I suppose."

"Does it have anything to do with those Daily Prophet articles you were reading at the Leaky Cauldron?" She tried to sound indifferent, but a spark laid beneath her tone. She picked at her nails, which were lacquered with black glitter and yellow chromatics. She had tucked her pastries into her pockets, though Hermione could smell them. They were ones from Honeydukes.

Has she been to Hogsmeade?

"No..." Hermione shook her head, her wild locks tied back into a puffed bun. "Wait, what articles?" Hermione's brow jumped up, her mouth reduced to a tense point.

"You were reading about Draco and his family," Emily fussed with her nails, her expression more annoyed than anything else. "You had a bunch of scribbles all over them. _Remember_?"

"I wasn't writing about them," Hermione shot back, a deep frown wrinkled across her lips. "Not strictly."

Emily snorted, which was an ugly sound from such a pretty girl. "You were, but okay, whatever."

"I don't see why it would be a problem if I were." Hermione shot back, low and aggressive. She thought Emily had missed what she'd said until the girl turned back on her. "It's a public paper, which anyone can read."

"I just think it's pretty rude of you, to be picking on him, or his family, given he's like... Here, in the dorms. I'd hate for someone to be investigating _me, _like they thought I was a criminal." Emily's demeanor continued to darken, from the stern angle of her brows and the way her bottom lip began to jut outward.

"Pardon?" Hermione folded her hands on her papers, unable to make peace with the image of an angry Hufflepuff.

"They're helping the Ministry, they helped pay for Hogwarts to be repaired," she huffed some hair out of her face, her pinky shot out to grab the lock that had stuck to her lips.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Emily." Hermione fought to keep her tone level. "I've never said anything about the Malfoys. I even offered to testify in their favor, after they were arrested -- "

"But you didn't! You and your friends always got into it with him, but I thought it was Potter who always started things." Emily had tears in her eyes, and Hermione struggled to piece together _why_. "Why don't you just leave him _alone_."

"You can't be serious," Hermione laughed, in spite of herself. "He bullied me! He made fun of me, for being Muggleborn, not to mention how much his family hated me."

"You don't even know his family." Emily stamped her foot, her hands clasped tight by her sides. She seemed to arch and rear, though she refrained from any actual attack.

"And I daresay neither do you, if you have such glowing impression of them," Hermione pushed her hair out of her face. "I understand you like Draco -- "

"As if! I don't -- you don't even know what you're talking about!" Emily sneered. "You're the one who's obsessed with him! I saw your little note to him in that book -- "

Hermione felt a deep blush spread from her chest upwards, as she saw the dorms move around her. Blaise and Theo had entered, with brooms over their shoulders and a joke halfway told. Paige and Bethany had been playing Exploding Snap, but their cards remained in hand as they stared at the scene unfolding. Hermione felt the back of her neck heat up, as she looked back to Emily.

"Are you quite done?" Hermione spoke, cool-toned and indifferent. She felt her chest swell, with grief over a girl who she'd almost considered a friend. She had been so nice, at the Leaky Cauldron and at breakfast. Now she could see why Draco liked her, why he kept her close. She was just another Pansy, out to preen and pat his head, to bolster his ego and soothe his sorrows.

"Oh, eff off," Emily spun on her heel, though she paused to flip off Hermione. A spark flew from her finger, which Hermione wasn't completely sure she'd meant, and it landed straight onto her desk. The whole thing went up, from loose parchments to books, and Hermione had to jump back.

As quick as it lit up, it was put out by Blaise. He'd gotten his wand out when he'd seen Emily spin around. Hermione was too floored to speak, or to cast, and she looked towards Emily.

"I'm so sorry -- I didn't mean that-- " Emily broke into tears, and vanished into the dorms below. Several Ravenclaws who were in the rafters above peered down, a variety of shocked and smug expressions shared between them. Bethany got up from her game with Paige, to rush after her friend. Paige followed, quizzical at Hermione before she, too, vanished.

Hermione was left with a charred sprawl of parchments and papers. The books were destroyed, which was a unique disappointment, though the Library book had remained untouched. She'd left it in her bag, unlike the others, which had come from the bookshelves around her. She frowned at the carnage, unsure if it could be salvaged.

"You okay there, Granger?" Blaise had approached, somewhere in her mourning of the books.

"Um, I suppose." She frowned, between the books and the boy who'd thrown dungbombs at her for laughs in Third year.

"I wouldn't, uh..." He cast a sidelong look after Emily, who'd vanished below. "She's been trying to shag Draco since she learned what the word meant."

"Fantastic for her." Hermione scratched her forehead, as she put out the corner of one piece of parchment that remained alight.

"She broke Pansy's nose one summer in France," he grinned, but the expression faded soon after. "Jealousy'll do that."

And off Blaise went, with Theo in tow.

Hermione began to brush aside the ashes of her work. The table wasn't too damaged, thankfully. Her quills were ruined. As she pushed aside one large chunk of charcoal, which had once been a Daily Prophet, she frowned.

She had expected Kingsley's note to have crisped. But from the fire came a clean stack of Ministry-stamped papers, signed by Kingsley himself.

_"The best thing to do would be to burn the paper and start over."_

The original piece of paper cracked apart like a fortune cookie, and a pile of papers sprung forward like an accordion. Rather than the slip of empty paper that had arrived, there was several sheets stacked atop one another, browned at the edges but perfectly readable. Hermione looked around, livid, as if a miracle had been performed before her very eyes.

As if she'd not seen magic before.

"Where's the fire!"

Hermione snapped her attention to the door, where Professor Ayers stood with her wand aloft. She was out of breath, bow-legged and panting. She looked around, at the Ravenclaws above, and at the table in front of Hermione.

Hermione shoved the report into her robes, and offered an apologetic smile.

"Oh, sorry, ah," she pointed, loosely. "A game of Exploding Snap went wrong."

"Ah -- yes -- they do that, don't they," Professor Ayers puffed a piece of hair out of her face, a too-wide grin on her face. She licked her lips, and continued to breathe, deeply, desperately, as if she'd run a marathon. "As long as... You're all safe... Oh Merlin, those books," she wheezed.

"Mmh, they were caught in the crossfire."

Professor Ayers approached, her wand held out towards each book. She took a seat, uninvited, and begun to mend them. Hermione, for all her skills in magic, had never seen a mending spell cast with such precision. She watched as the books reformed, the ashes reverted to paper, and the words reformed.

"What exactly did you do, Professor?" Hermione asked, out of habit, as she tried to find a way to excuse herself without revealing the sensitive documents beneath her robes.

"Ah," she grit her teeth. "I worked at the Ministry, repairing texts... Birth certificates, old documents, deeds, anything of uh -- academic nature."

Hermione put two and two together, her lips pursed. "So you helped with the Ministry's Muggle-Born Registration Commission?"

Professor Ayers winced, her head bowed as she checked the book in front of her. Professor Ayers opened her mouth, to defend herself, but faltered. She continued to repair the books, though, in truth, they were fixed. She busied herself with the bookmark of one book, a three-eyed cat with two tails.

"Thank you, Professor. I have to go meet with a friend, but," Hermione pushed up from the table, eager to get away from her.

"I wouldn't say I helped them," she spoke in a small voice, and stood to leave. The bubbly, light-hearted professor took on a new light as Hermione examined her. "Come visit my office, when you get a chance. I have a personal library I brought with me, if rare books are your thing."

"Sure," Hermione agreed, with no interest in doing so. She didn't care what part Ayers played in the Commission, there was no _good_ part of it. She smiled a tight smile and rushed downstairs, to her bed. She ignored the sobs from Emily, and yanked her curtains shut. She silenced them next, her eyes wide and her greed immeasurable.

The pages Kingsley had sent were formed into small sections.

The first section was a report, taken by Minister Strauss upon the inspection of the Malfoy property after their arrest. The Ministry seized control of the grounds, with the intent of disarming and detaining any remaining Death Eaters. They also wanted to secure Dark Artifacts, with the help of the Malfoys. Their original sweeps of the premise missed sections, dungeons, and so many items. Hermione couldn't find it in herself to read everything, though it listed several artifacts they left with the family.

Some jewelry, in the form of necklaces and rings, which were decided to be safe. Some Dark Arts scrolls and tomes, as well as the majority of their Library. There were statues and other ornate things, also left with them. The Ministry seemed intent on only taking what was the worst of the worst. They mentioned that they would monitor the premise, to ensure nothing Dark was brought in, either.

The report moved on, to menial things like the damage sustained to the Manor. The drawing room had been torn apart, though no reason was given. The general property was in disarray and disrepair. That was all insurance concerns, and Hermione skipped it.

What next caught her eye was the name Selwyn, and what followed.

Minister Strauss had been called to the Malfoy property to identify the bodies of two corpses. The details of their death had been redacted, as had any photos of the bodies. Hermione was thankful. Their names, however, remained.

_Clive Selwyn and Desdemona Nott. _

It was a family tree, one that had the Ministry sigil stamped in the background. It was one of the family trees that all Magical families were forced to fill out, for the assessment of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. Each of their names branched upwards, with two spikes downward to suggest a union.

One spike read 'Grimward Selwyn' while another read 'Ivana Selwyn'.

(Ivana's name was marked with a cross, to suggest she had died at around seven years old.)

What caused Hermione to pause was the link between Clive's parents. One was Slyvia Selwyn, who Hermione had no idea about. But she was matched with Abraxas Malfoy, as if he had been Clive's father. They were not marked as married, denoted by a broken line. And over Desdemona was Cantankerus Nott and Lucinda Nott, nee Rowle. These names meant little to Hermione, though Cantankerus had written the Pure-blood registry, which acted as canon for the bloodlines of repute.

Hermione's gaze jumped back to Abraxas Malfoy, a deep, dark line formed between her brows. A little red mark had been drawn around Slyvia's name, along with the words 'Muggleborn' -- and things began to click into place for Hermione.

This linked Grimward Selwyn as Draco's cousin, by blood and little else. If Voldemort got wind of this arrangement, it only made sense that Clive Selwyn and Desdemona Nott had been executed on the Malfoy estate. Clive would have represented a half-blood, a taint on the pure-blood ideals. Even worse, Malfoy was considered one of the most prestigious families, along with the Notts. She had learned as much from how they flounced around, and in the fact both their fathers had gone to Azkaban for Voldemort. 

A few pages later, there was a piece of parchment; a confession sent in by someone who knew Sylvia from Hogwarts along with Sylvia's graduation certificate from the Ministry where her name had been _Sylvia Bowers_. The informant had been redacted, but in essence, they refused to vouch for her as a fellow Pure-blood. They must have been old, and terrified. If they spoke in support of Sylvia, and by extension, Clive, they may be called into questioning. They might be seen as a Muggleborn sympathizer. The pair were taken into the Ministry for questioning, as it was a punishable offense to impersonate a Pure-blood family.

Hermione flipped back to the autopsy and noted that their time of death was two days after their hearing.

The cause, however, made Hermione feel ill.

She skimmed it, but in essence, it was written down as stress-induced murder by the _Crucio_ curse, a death categorized by torn vocal cords, exploded hearts and burned out brain stems. They must have been in their fifties or so...

She frowned at the details and skipped to the bottom.

As she turned to the last report, she saw the signature to detain them by Dolores Jane Umbridge.

That _bitch_. 

Grimward, however, was found by the Ministry alive and well, when you contrasted his state with his parents. But instead of being found on the Malfoy Estate, he had been found in Hogsmeade, by the Shrieking Shack. This was several weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, and after the Malfoy family had been arrested.

He had shown signs of exposure to Dementors, in the dark shadows around his eyes and his frail state.

He claimed to have been saved by one of the Death Eaters, one Draco Malfoy.

This statement was taken two days before the Malfoys were given a full pardon. 

Hermione read and re-read the information, at a loss for words. She flopped back onto her bed, one leg kicked up onto the other as she read over it, more than once, her mind unable to piece together what this meant for the Professor Selwyn who had been so cruel to her.

And, if this Grimward person really was the grandson of Abraxas Malfoy, that would make him Draco's cousin. She frowned in the darkness, up at the stone ceiling. The enchanted sunlight from her dungeon window had vanished long ago, and she was alone in the dorms. She cast a small string of _lumos filas_ along the head of her bed, which she kept dim.

Dementors... Grimward... 

Hermione shoved her curtains back, which shattered her silencing charm. She heard the soft chatter of Emily and Bethany, which stopped when Hermione appeared. Emily turned away, her chin on her knees and her arms crossed around her shins. Bethany frowned but didn't look mad. She seemed tired if anything and Hermione blinked away her focus. Instead, she pulled out the crumpled note that Luna had given her on the train, the one she'd told her someone had sent in secret.

It was the messages Luna spoke of, which glinted the message back at her.

_"grim ward kissed."_

_"safe shack."_

These messages had been sent in January, she remembered Luna had said. She worried her lip between her teeth and stuffed the reports into her drawer, along with Luna's note. Something in all of this didn't add up, but she didn't yet know _what_.

Hermione pushed herself out of bed, to walk towards the door.

"Hey," a croaky voice called. "Hermione."

Hermione stopped, rigid through her shoulders and her gaze pointed forward.

"I'm really sorry," Emily spoke, softly. "About your books. I really didn't mean to - to do that."

Hermione turned, to look at the bundled up Hufflepuff on the bed. She had several blankets wrapped around her, and an excessive amount of tissues. "Professor Ayers fixed them. They were school property."

Emily snorted, though it was snotty and thick, rather than mean. "Okay, well, I'm still sorry. It's not your fault. I'm the dumb Hufflepuff who has a dumb crush on a dumb -- dumb snake!" She tossed a tissue at the wall, and it burst into flames before it impacted. She pursed her lips and the tears began anew.

"Er," Hermione flexed her hand beside her. "Perhaps he'll come around."

"Ha! I asked him to - go - with - me - to - Hogsmeade," she tossed each tissue at the wall, and each burst into smoke before they hit the wall. "And you know what he said? Oh, the git!" And she broke into tears again, and all Hermione wanted to do was fade out of existence like she had the Invisibility Cloak. "He told me to leave - him - alone. I'm like, the only person who even really _knows_ him. He was my first _kiss_, and -- "

Hermione dug her nails into her palms, desperate to escape the tirade. She had thought this room would be calmer, but she was wrong.

"Oh boo hoo, Fawley," a voice sniped through the dark. "Show of hands, who's kissed Malfoy?"

Daphne waved a hand, as did Pansy and Bethany. Bethany seemed displeased with herself, whereas the other two seemed merely bored. "It was a dare fifth year," she blushed to her ears, blonde hair all the more golden for the contrast.

"Let the crush _die_, sweetheart, he's not worth the wrinkles." Pansy had a beautiful dress on, which mixed modern and medieval. Hermione shuffled on the spot, which drew Pansy's vision like a bird of prey. "Wait, does that mean Granger's the only one in our whole dorm who hasn't kissed him? It makes sense, but I hadn't realized Draco was so _easy_."

"I didn't even really kiss him, though!" Bethany as good as cried, as Emily began sobbing anew. "It was a peck on the lips!"

"Bethany, what the _hell_ \-- oh Merlin, I'm such an idiot," she threw her blanket over her head, which didn't help in the least.

Daphne and Pansy settled into their beds, facing one another. It was late, and had Hermione the time, she'd have asked what they had been out doing exactly. But she couldn't hear herself think over the sound of Emily and Bethany, who had begun to squabble over what kisses actually counted.

Hermione took her chance, to sneak upstairs to the main dorm. The other girls' room was quiet, with Paige's head poked out to watch Hermione pass. 

"Is Emily okay?"

Hermione shook her head, and Paige dashed in to check on her. She ignored the pang of jealousy, as she remained deeply confused and unsure of how others functioned. She had kissed Krum and Ron, sure, and McLaggen -- perhaps these things simply happened in the dungeons, or in alcoves. She massaged her temples and emerged in the earthy, dimly lit dorms above.

It was there she saw Draco, his fingers framed around his temple as he read at the table she'd been spread across earlier.

She looked around, mortified, and found no other faces. The moon shone overhead, and she had to wonder just how late it was.

"Unfortunately there's no conversation to eavesdrop on this time, Granger." He snapped his book shut, frown formed before she had a chance to ask what he meant. "Do you really think Blaise and I would have a private conversation without wards? Or are you so naive, to think you're any level of proficient in _sneaking _around?"

"I have no idea what you mean," Hermione arched her brow, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You caught the tail end, no doubt," he tipped his head, now on his feet. He approached her with all the grace of a predator who sensed prey, his face shadowed by the moonlight overhead. "Why do you think Blaise brought you up? As if he'd mention you for no reason, or are you so self-assured, that didn't strike you as strange?"

Hermione scolded herself, inwardly, as she recalled her late-night peek into the private conversation Blaise and Draco had been having in the lounge. "Perhaps speak somewhere _private_, if you want it to be private."

"Perhaps you shouldn't rely on sneaking around, or someone might mistake you for a Slytherin. Perhaps you should learn to _speak_ to people, if you have questions, rather than dig around in places you don't belong," he flexed a brow at her, the distance slimmer even now. "Blaise told me you made Emily cry."

"No, you _made_ Emily upset, and then she took it out on me. Some tripe about how I'm trying to steal you away or flirting, or some_ nonsense_," Hermione corrected, forthright and no minced words. "She invited you to Hogsmeade, and you turned her down."

Draco remained unmoved, by her words and by his actions. He narrowed his eyes down at her, and she realized the faint glimmer hung around his eyes.

"Are you sleeping?"

"What?" Draco withdrew, like a cobra after a strike. He grit his teeth, fists formed by his sides though she couldn't imagine why.

"What's keeping you awake, Draco?" She tipped her head, an edge of concern to her voice. Whatever glamour charm he'd used that morning must have been waning, as it faded and reappeared like lightning. She'd seen him sixth year, tired eyed and withdrawn. "Are you okay?"

"I'm perfect," he snipped out his words, clean-cut and precise. He shoved past her, his arm bumped into her shoulder, and she watched him retreat.

She had asked him, at least. She had asked if he was okay, and he had lied. She clenched and unclenched her fists by her sides, unsure if that was the right question to have asked. She looked at the table she had been at, the one that Professor Ayers had repaired. She saw the list she had written, with columns and names, of Strauss and of the Malfoys. Her blood ran cold and her eyes darted after him. It wasn't specific, just dates of when things had happened.

She picked up the paper, to tear it apart and set the scraps on fire.


	11. love given.

> _**September 4th, 1998. When will classes get here?** _

Hermione slept terribly, which slanted her posture and darkened her under eyes. She had worried over what Draco had seen, as there was a slim chance he’d missed the parchment filled with his family’s names and details.

It had been foolish of her not to double check the books, but she had needed to get away from Professor Ayers, and she had been too excited about the letter from Kingsley. Her pursuit of knowledge blew up in her face, and for that, her sleep suffered.

It was Friday, and she had the weekend — and then classes. She was excited for them, as a distraction and a step forward. She had been excited to come back to Hogwarts, if a little nervous.

Now?

It was a minefield of hurt feelings and insidious secrets. She fussed with her toast, which she held off to one side. In her other hand was a coffee, black with two sugars, and between her knees was a text book for Charms.

The book, however, was a loose outline of pure-blood families of the twentieth century, which she had enchanted to appear as merely Charms work. In truth, the topic of blood purity was utter nonsense and hardly one that she wanted to study.

But really, she needed to be sure that Grimward Selwyn was, in fact, Draco’s cousin.

She had no reason for this to matter to her, except for the delicious satisfaction of being able to throw it in Professor Selwyn’s face should he make a show of her in class. She could feel accomplished, up until she felt miserable, for mocking a survivor of torture and kidnapping.

She snapped the book shut with a clumsy jostle of her knees, her eyelids felt weighed down by her lack of sleep.

It would be easier to read in the Library, but it was still out of bounds. There was the Great Hall, but she wanted to avoid everyone. She pointedly avoided the Girls' Lounge within the Eighth year dormitory, and the dormitory at large.

Which left this empty courtyard, which had no purpose except for people to relax between classes. It was far away from any dorms, and it was very close to the teacher’s lounge. No students would willingly choose to hang out here, except for some bold First years who’d yet to have their fun ruined by teachers.

Hogwarts had once been a place she’d been enthralled by, for the sake of their intelligent and informative professors; it was ludicrous for her to wish to see none of them, for varying reasons.

She didn't want to see Professor Selwyn, not until she was prepared to face him with facts of her own. She didn't like to be outdone, and she _ despised _ feeling stupid. She had to wonder if he'd taken Potions while Snape had been a teacher, and in doing so, absorbed his weighted gaze and venomous tongue.

She avoided Oliver Wood, for very different reasons. While he hadn't done much more than when they'd first met, he made her painfully confused, which she couldn't stand, either. He would smile if he passed her, and she'd glare in return. He'd only smile wider as if it were a challenge.

She avoided her old professors, as she didn't want to linger on what they had lost. She didn’t want them to search her face for where they’d failed her, or have them ask if they’d done enough for her. They had, over and over, they had saved her life in more ways than she could count. She was polite with them, no doubt, but they didn't get much further than pleasantries.

And then there was Professor Ayers, who acted as a spiritual foil to Professor Binns. Where he was slow-spoken and gradual, Professor Ayers was like a sped-up Snitch. She spoke too fast and was difficult to follow, but she stood out with her brilliant red hair.

The thought seemed to act as an _ accio _ incantation, as she rounded the corner with her arms full of books. She struggled with them, the Muggle way, and Hermione saw herself mirrored in the woman. She was only thirty or so, not much older than that.

“Ms Granger!” She huffed, the wooden crate adjusted to allow her better grip.

“Professor,” Hermione greeted, as she tried her best not to frown.

“Oh, if you’re not busy — I wanted to speak with you,” she paused, to cast a look around the courtyard. “Um, it’s — are you busy?”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ayers nudged her head towards her office. She was off, without waiting, her smile as wide as ever.

Hermione exhaled, at least able to spare this woman a little time. She was supposedly part of the Order of the Phoenix, though Hermione didn’t quite understand why such a group was necessary. Perhaps she had joined, in the interest of stamping out what Death Eaters remained?

The History of Magic classroom was close to the Great Hall, which caused Hermione’s anxiety to shoot up. She wanted to be alone, but at least being in a classroom was _ more _ alone than being in a courtyard.

She followed Ayers in, and took a seat on one of the desks near the front. Ayers in turn ditched her crate of books, a skewed smile and her face bright red.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Ayers waved a hand at Hermione, loose and vague. “From — oh, from, a lot of people, um, from the Order.”

“You mentioned,” Hermione paused. “What, if I might ask, is the Order doing..?”

Ayers waved her wand, to silence the classroom and bar the door. “Standard procedure, sorry,” she said as Hermione’s brows jumped upward. “We can’t exactly talk about Order stuff out in the open.”

Hermione shrugged, her hands thrown up in spite of her better judgement. “As I said, I don’t really know much about what the Order is _ up _ to, or what they’ve been doing.”

“Right, well,” Ayers pushed her long hair out of her face, and tossed her robes over her desk. They were golden and liquid, as they slid off the desk and onto the floor. “It’s been clean-up, mostly.”

She glowed in the afternoon sunlight, and her golden robes had covered her Muggle jeans and sneakers. She bunched her hair into a messy bun, which was almost the size of a basketball due to the amount of hair. It dropped around the back of her head, as her large, round glasses slipped down her button nose.

“Clean up?”

“Undoing a lot of the things the Death Eaters started. History was written by those who won, all that, so,” she frowned at the shelves. “The pricks took it upon themselves to undo a lot of the History books within the Ministry, which act as canon for our society at large. They just — poof, removed people. So, me? I’ve been working to preserve the war, what really happened, who did what… Keeping people accountable.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how that linked with the Order, but their processes had been private. Perhaps they wanted to categorize what had gone on behind closed doors, to ensure that Moody, Remus, Tonks, all those who’d died in service were remembered.

“Why are you here, then? Did you _ want _ to teach, or is it just — “

"Oh, I never thought I'd get to teach History of Magic," she babbled, her hand in motion as she waved the books onto the shelves. "I thought, maybe Muggle Studies? Or Transfiguration? But then those positions were filled, and I don't know if you've noticed, but the teachers who teach at Hogwarts, they stick around like honey, they just don't move on. Professor Binns was the worst of it -- oh, rest his soul, of course, but I'm glad to have the position, though I mean, it's a shame it had to come out of tragedy."

Hermione murmured blind agreement, her gaze bounced from book to book. “Professor, you mentioned you worked with the Ministry — “

“About that,” Ayers paused, to look at Hermione. “That’s sort of how… The Order…”

“The Order took you on because you worked at the Ministry.” Hermione raised a brow, skeptical. “Lots of people worked there. What made _ you _ the one they went after?” The question may have come across as rude, but Hermione found it strange to handpick a seemingly random witch out of the Ministry.

“I actually approached them, after um — after, Dumbledore died,” her voice was small, stuck in her chest. “I was close with Dumbledore, actually, and he told me — he told me some people to speak to, if things went the way he thought they would. He was a — a smart man.”

Hermione waited for her to catch herself, or to explain further. She always seemed unsure, no matter the topic.

“When the, um… The Ministry started to shift, so to say, I started to speak with Dumbledore. Back when he and Harry first spoke out about Vo — the — that _ monster _ — because, I could see how the records were changing and flowing. So much misinformation...” Her cheeks flared red, and Hermione had to wonder if red was really her natural tone while the pale lily-white was the colour she’d change _ to _.

“What did you speak to Dumbledore about?” Hermione toyed with her nails, which were too short and dirtier than she realized.

“I um, sort of hijacked some Ministry records… A few, um, thousand.” She spoke slowly through her words, and snapped her hands up in her defense. “The quills they used to identify Muggleborns, and to send them letters, well they, the ones at the Ministry — well, rather than use the information to contact the children, to invite them to Hogwarts, they were going to use them to round the children up.”

The horror of her words hit Hermione, full force. She thought back to the empty platform nine and three-quarters, and the sparse Great Hall. Her stomach roiled with anxiety at the thought she could have been one of those children had she been born a few years later.

“I — er, broke the quills, a little. It was _ meant _to be temporary, but I was so afraid, I just — I ruined them completely. They’re still trying to fix them. But, it meant they couldn’t — “ she waved a hand, terrified. “It sounds terrible when I say it out loud, but I knew — if they got those children…”

“That’s why the classes are so small?”

“All the children are half-blood or pure,” Ayers nodded. “Or they were already enrolled, through McGonagall’s efforts. And that isn’t even to mention the Muggleborns who weren’t allowed at all the prior year, so many of them decided to just…” She waved a hand, and then her hand turned to a fist. “Not come back.”

“You couldn’t have known what the future held when you tried to break them.”

“I figured, it was better to leave uneducated witches and wizards out there that we could one day locate, rather than allow them to be slaughtered on sight.” Ayers’ voice went icy, which took Hermione by surprise.

“Wait, you said you _ stole _ Ministry files — ”

“I put them on my laptop. I scanned them, the actual documents, before they went in and hacked them up to remove all the Muggleborns. They revoked properties, they removed people altogether. They were really out to _ purify _ our world. Disgusting, really,” Ayers scratched her head. “And, I mean, using Muggle technology to do such a thing is very illegal, but I managed to um, re-print it all, and Kingsley is having it all reformatted into acceptable Ministry records.”

“Didn’t the Death Eaters come looking for them?”

Ayers smirked. “They tore my apartment to pieces, but I kept my computer in a safe box out in the forest. Very, um, stupid, perhaps, but — everything was ruined, except for some of my clothes, and my books,” she gestured to her shelves of books. “I donated them to the school, to replace the ones that were lost.”

The way Professor Ayers spoke caused Hermione more stress than she could describe, but her actions were admirable. They were the sort of thing Hermione would have hoped to have done, if she’d not been able to take part in the fight itself.

She watched as Ayers shifted the last of the books onto the shelves. She had begun on some oddly shaped mechanical things, used to chart maps and to catalog coordinates. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she did the math, along with the fact Ayers was a Gryffindor...

“If you were a Gryffindor, did you know Harry’s parents? James, Lily — ”

“No!” Ayers dropped a globe, which showed the settlements of wizards in the 11th century. It bounced across the floor, which only got worse as she chased it.

“Oh, I just assumed, seeing as you’re around their age.”

“I — yes, I suppose! A few years younger! I mean, am I? I hadn’t…” Ayers turned bright red, and Hermione knew she’d struck a chord.

“So you did know them?”

“You know, I suppose, I knew them a little!”

“A little?”

“They were a few years ahead of me, and much, much more — _ more _ everything, than I was, I can tell you that. I liked _ books _ , and — they weren’t so _ bookish _.” Ayers laughed, hollow and high. “I don’t want to even think about it. Remus was good, he used to tutor me for Astronomy, and, oh, Sirius used to make fun of him for it, but — I can’t help but wonder if he was jealous I stole his friend away.” Ayers paused, wide-eyed. “N-Not that, I never — Tonks was sweet, and, I — you know!”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Professor Ayers.” Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, but she did her best to hide it behind her hand. “I just thought, given that you’re aligned with the Order, and you’d known Dumbledore…”

“Yes, well,” Ayers cleared her throat. “I knew them. James was a little too much for my liking. He and Sirius would tease the ever-loving _ shite _ out of me.” She smiled, as if she hadn’t minded the bulling all that much.

“And Lily?” Hermione prodded, too curious for her own good.

“Lily, she was…” Ayers’ voice broke, solitary and simple. She shook her head. “I swear I felt it, when she died. I woke up November first, and I just — I knew what had happened, in my heart.”

Hermione nodded, as she could imagine such a loss impacted countless people. The Potters were well-loved, and held dear by everyone who had known them.

“I suppose she didn’t disappear, though.” A smile quirked on her lips. “Harry lived, and… He’s done so much. She would be proud.”

What anxious energy consumed Ayers vanished, as she stared at the globe she had picked up off the ground. Her eyes looked glazed over, as if she’d received bad news. Hermione’s laughter had stopped a while ago, but the silence between them remained.

With her auburn hair and green eyes, Hermione couldn’t help but _ see _ the woman that Ayers spoke of. While not identical, there were overlaps, and Hermione had to wonder if that made it more difficult for her to accept.

If a girl who looked much like her died to Voldemort, she’d feel the same way too, she suspected.

“So you were close, then.” She felt much like Rita Skeeter, chasing the vulnerabilities for what lay beneath. She did care, in a sense, but she could sense something laid beneath Ayers’ babbling.

“She was Head Girl, and — I wanted to be like her, honestly. We weren’t as close as all that, but close enough,” Ayers shrugged a shoulder, noncommittal. “I think a lot of what I did in the Ministry, I did for her. For people _ like _ her,” Ayers looked at Hermione, serene. “For people like _ you _, Hermione.”

Muggleborns; those who weren’t magical in the eyes of pure-blood purists, but were born into magic all the same.

“History has shown again and again,” Ayers set the globe on the table, and it resumed a slow rotation. ”Magic can come from anywhere, and from anyone.”

Hermione avoided eye contact with the globe as it turned to reveal Australia. She instead fixed her gaze onto the stone floor in front of her, her hands clamped to the desk.

“You should go, enjoy your last few days of freedom.” Ayers smiled, some of the redness rose back in her cheeks. She busied herself with her extra bits and pieces, which Hermione felt content to leave her with.

Grimward had been born in the seventies, which places him at least five years younger than Ayers. She’d ask, but there wasn’t much to be gained there. Hermione watched Ayers as she placed a totem of a black dog which was angled next to a black cat.

“Oh, before you go Ms. Granger,” Ayers dug through the box, to hand her a book. “I think you could use some lightness to counteract all the dark.” She smiled, and it was so warm and motherly that Hermione almost cried. She grit her teeth and thanked her, instinctually, as she rushed out the door.

_ Light Magic For Dark Times _.

“Oh, thank you Professor.”

Hermione suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, until she was out of the office. She flipped through the book as she walked back towards her dorm, and saw impractical concepts and useless well-wishes. While magic was real and alive, these spells spoke of positive thinking and good intentions.

She glanced over a section about _ Amourdonne _ and its effects on those it was given to. It was some tripe about well wishes, and how you could package them up for those you loved. It was snake oil and promises that were impossible, and she’d seen all of that during the war.

She tucked the book into her bag, unsure if she’d ever bother to read it.

* * *

> _ **September 5th, 1998. When will reading be an option.** _

“Hermione!” Emily huffed, out of breath.

Hermione, who had been curled up in her bed with a book on Arithmancy she’d found in her purse.

“Are you busy?”

“No?”

“Good!” Emily as good as fell onto Hermione’s bed, a paper bag held aloft.

“What’s wrong?”

Emily shoved the bag at her, a stern look on her face.

Hermione accepted the bag, wary-eyed as she opened it. A thousand counter-curses ran through her head until she saw two plumes pop out the top.

“I got you some quills,” she looked at Hermione, hopeful and bright. “Because, I kind of — I tend to make fires happen, when I’m mad, and it’s a bad habit, and I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Hermione smoothed her hair away from her face as she pulled out the beautiful big quills. They were ornate, in blues and golds. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Emily waved her hands, to shut Hermione up. “I wanted to. Draco’s a good friend of mine, and I can’t… I’m over him.” She exhaled through her nose, dejected.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione was at a loss for words, given she didn’t do this often. She set the quills aside on her nightstand, and sat up to face Emily properly. She had her hair in pigtails, with two thick blonde streaks coloured through the black.

It somehow made her Hufflepuff pride all the more noticeable, along with her yellow and black nails, and the faint glimmer of eyeshadow. Hermione had no idea how girls found it in themselves to do such trivial things daily, but if it made them happy…

“Did you need to — “

“I thought he really liked me.” Emily flopped back onto the bed, her arms and legs tossed outwards. “But I’m just one of the boys to him, and I tried in fourth year, I did my hair like Pansy’s, because he _ liked _ Pansy, but he said he liked my _ old _ hair, but I hate my natural hair, it’s so huge and bushy and _ ugly _ — “

Hermione slow blinked, as Emily tipped her head to look at her.

“It’s cute on you,” she whined, as she shoved herself back up. “I mean, I’m not going to change my hair for some ratty little _ brat _ , either, I like it when it’s straight and black, it’s more _ me _.”

“Well, you want someone who wants you as you are, not as they want you to be,” Hermione rested her chin on her knee, as she thought of Krum, who’d been so enamoured with her Fourth year. He could have had any one of the pretty girls, and he’d picked _ her _.

And so she’d tried to be pretty, for once, and — it was fun, in a way, but it felt disingenuous. She didn’t hate it, but it took too much time and felt so menial. She looked at Emily, with her polished nails and perfect makeup, and wished she had patience for such things.

“I don’t even know why I like him,” Emily frowned. “He used to be nice, and I mean, he can be now, but he’s gotten so dreary.”

“Everyone’s been hit with that,” Hermione moved to sit up, properly, as Emily sat back up too.

“I guess, I like that he’s protective, and he’s smart. And he really cares, when he cares…”

Hermione made a sound of agreement, though she kept verbally quiet.

Emily opened and closed her mouth, as if she had more to say or more to ask, but she went quiet much like Hermione. The girls sat in an agreeable silence, for longer than Hermione could recall.

“You don’t like him, do you?”

Hermione shot Emily a look, her brows furrowed. “Ah, not particularly.”

“I wouldn’t care if you did,” Emily shrugged, as she moved to stand up. “Just don’t mess him around. Okay?”

Hermione verbally ping-ponged, stuck between defense and agreement. She exhaled, sharp and low. “I have no intentions of messing around with Draco.”

Emily shot her a smile, as if that put her mind at ease.

As if Hermione was the one who ever messed with _ him _.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, it all links up. >_>;;


	12. he dreams of them.

> _**September 6th, 1998. These late nights will be the end of her.** _

Hermione awoke to the sensation of her ring, hot against her chest. It was late, sometime past midnight. It was hard to pinpoint exactly, given they were sunk into the ground itself. She couldn't understand the appeal, and probably never _would_.

Her mind relaxed until she recalled _why_ she was awake, to ponder the dorms.

_The ring._

She cast a light spell, and saw a jumble of letters. If it was a code or some secret message, she was far too tired to piece it together. It didn't matter how much she squinted at it, the letters meant nothing.

_"Ylu.e ovoe"_

Instead she looked at the orb by her bed, the one that mirrored the weather outside -- it glowed with a full moon and no clouds, as little pinpoint raindrops fell. A howl punctuated the silence, though it was so distant that Hermione decided it was a trick of her sleepy mind.

Werewolves were forbidden to reside in the Forbidden Forest, after all.

She could hear Pansy snoring, deep and loud. Her head ached as she laid back in her bed, the jumble of letters like ink in water. The ring continued to heat and cool, as if it were unsure of it's message. The letters formed and malformed, until they settled.

_"Love you."_

She scoffed; was he drunk?

Probably.

It was a Saturday night after all. He was probably at his new job with his new friends, and that was amazing for him. Perhaps that sounded sarcastic or jealous, but she was neither. If he became entrenched in his life, it would make her feel less guilty for moving on with hers.

Hermione shoved herself out of bed, to sneak up to the dorm above.

She'd skipped dinner and been too engrossed in her Arthimacy book to notice her stomach rumble. And the hunger pangs had turned to nausea.

Except rather than an empty dorm, she saw McGonagall sneak through the glass doors. Her stomach dropped out of panic, and her mind jumped back to the ring.

What if Ron hadn't been drunk? What if it was Auror business gone awry, or something for the Order.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but McGonagall waved her hand in kind. She seemed taken aback that Hermione was _awake_, and up at this hour, but if she was angry, she didn't say as much. Instead, Hermione watched as McGonagall waved a hand, to ask for Hermione to follow her. They exited the dorms in silence, and began the long trek to the front of the castle. It was strange to be so foreign to the school, kicked out into the greenhouse area rather in the towers or even in the dungeons themselves.

"Were you coming to get me, Headmistress?" Hermione said, after they were a few dozen paces away from the greenhouse.

"Coincidentally, yes. I hadn't expected you to be awake, though I can't punish you for being a night owl." She smiled, but it could have been a trick of the light.

"I was woken up, by the howls." Hermione lied, not eager to have a repeat as she had with Professor Selwyn, who accused her of thinking she was more special than she really was.

"Ah, yes," McGongall worried her terrycloth robes through her hands, "a few werewolves took up residence in the Forest, after the dust settled."

Hermione's head cracked towards McGonagall, her eyes blown wide. "Pardon?"

"They were made packless by the war, and a few people were turned, during," McGonagall waved her hand. "We've set them up in the Forest for the moment, until we find them somewhere safe. Selwyn's been providing them with Wolfsbane."

Hermione shot the forest a concerned look, but reminded herself that she had respected Remus and experienced his wealth of knowledge and kindness in spite of his condition. She didn't have any issues with werewolves, it just surprised her that they'd been accommodated for.

"That isn't what you've come to find me for though, is it," Hermione looked at the strong profile of McGonagall, cast in the full moon. She looked older than Hermione remembered, though her respect for the woman grew with time.

"I'm afraid not, Ms. Granger," she spoke, soft and low. "But I've had something brought to my attention, and I fear you'll be needed."

Hermione felt her heart beat in her head, as she stumbled alongside McGonagall. "What's happened?"

"No one's hurt." She kept her voice trim. "Not badly."

Hermione dug her nails into her palms as they walked towards the castle. The full moon hung over them like an omen, of things to come.

She knew better than to ask questions once they were inside the castle. If it was related to Order business, then they needed secrecy. While Hermione had never officially become a member, she'd done more than enough to prove her worth.

And as they ascended the stone stairs to McGonagall's office, she felt weary to her bones.

"What's wrong?" She spoke clearly and didn't care if she sounded demanding. "What's happened to Ron?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"He's hurt, isn't he. That's why you came to get me?" Hermione felt herself tighten like a spring, ready to burst into motion.

"I've no idea what Mr. Weasley is up to." She arched a confused brow, still tense. "This is regarding a… ah, long overdue concern, which has only being hastened by what I was told tonight."

"I'm afraid I don't follow." Hermione relaxed, if only a little. Perhaps he had been drunk after all. She willed a message through the ring, to ask if he was okay.

"Ayers had spoken to you about Order matters. I had meant to formally induct you, but I hadn't seen a need to rush. We thought we were done, but…" The woman showed her age, as she eased herself onto the edge of her desk.

Hermione took a seat on an arm chair, her hands folded and her expression baffled. "You want me to join the Order, formally?"

_ " _We hadn't wanted to put this on you, given you chose to study this year. Harry and Ron joined several weeks ago, and they seemed to agree," McGonagall waved down her building rage. "They're Aurors, able to move around within the Ministry and work with the information Ayers has provided them. In that way, it was more pertinent to officially bring them aboard."

"I would have joined, if you'd _told_ me!" Hermione didn't bother to keep her voice level, her teeth bared and her brows furrowed.

"We all agreed it'd be best for you to pursue your education, as you wanted to do. So, instead, we altered our conduct for Eighth years on your behalf. Your classmates were given the freedom to visit Hogsmeade, and to come and go as you please, Ms. Granger.” McGonagall stood up from behind her desk, her hands clasped in front of her. "Because of what we feared we'd have to ask of you."

Hermione frowned. Harry and Ron had left out any mentions of the Order of the Phoenix, and done so in secret. She had been instrumental to the war, just as they had. She tried not to mount evidence in her favor, for all the good she had done. She bounced on the spot, as if trying not to put her hand up to ask more questions. The office around her felt so suffocating, and again reminded her how she was second to Harry in so many ways.

How she simply wasn't _enough_ on her own, and how she'd been so stupid, so blind, so wrapped up in the Malfoys and in that _Selwyn_ fellow -- 

"So what is it, then?" Hermione finally popped, as McGongall loitered in her information. 

"We would have inducted you over the summer, had we known -- but it had only been a suspicion..." McGonagall looked out the window, and then to a partition curtain against the stone wall.

“What does the Order want with me?”

“We were hesitant to ask this of you, given all you’ve done so far -- “

“Just tell me what's going on!” Sharp, demanding, and so much less patient than she had once been. She appreciated that McGonagall was out to spare her feelings, but it heightened her anxiety. "Please?"

McGonagall stared her down, tight-lipped and determined. Hermione met the stare with equal severity, but she couldn’t compete.

“Headmistress?”

“Please, take a biscuit.” McGonagall shook a tin of thin mint cookies at Hermione. She took one of the chocolate covered treats, aware that McGonagall wouldn’t allow her a choice in the matter. “And please, take a seat.”

Hermione obliged, the cookie held between her index finger and thumb. She’d already melted through the first layer, the chocolate-coated around her fingertips.

“We believe that the end was merely an interlude.” McGonagall exhaled, defeated before she’d even started to speak. “The worst is behind us, to be sure, but we’re not done yet.”

“Yes, capturing his supporters, weeding through those who did it out of genuine belief, and those who were forced.” Hermione nipped the edge of the mint cookie, careful not to bite off too much. “I’m _aware_.” She lost her appetite hours ago, and it had yet to resurface.

“I wish that were all it was; Death Eaters are easier to track.” She gave Hermione a look, wearied by whatever news she had to impart. “Dumbledore was wrong.”

"Wrong?" Hermione snapped the cookie in half, her eyes narrowed at her mentor. “About what?” She had faith in the man until she’d found out that he’d planned to have Harry kill himself in the interest of the wizarding world.

“Before he died, he’d uncovered much on the topic of Horcruxes, and put forward dozens of potential outcomes for us to consider.” She folded her arms behind her, her hands interlocked on each forearm. “And, before he’d died, he’d only had half the picture. We've only now worked out the rest.”

“So he wasn’t wrong, just misinformed?”

“In a sense.”

“But, Voldemort is _ dead _ ,” Hermione dropped the biscuit, which dissolved into the carpet. “There were seven Horcruxes, with Harry as an unexpected eighth. We searched all of last year for them, Harry _ died _ to destroy the last one. We did everything we were supposed to, we did everything _ right _.“

McGonagall let her ramble, her tired eyes locked onto Hermione’s wild brown ones.

“What is this about.” Hermione kept the tears out of her voice, but the spilled from her eyes.

“We’ve yet to _ confirm _ it, but the world assumed he was dead once before.” She smiled a watery smile, miserable behind her slim glasses. “Trust me, Hermione, he’s a miserable taint on our world, and won’t be removed so easily.”

“But you’re speaking as if he’s turned up, or you have some lead on the matter.” She grit her teeth. “If that’s the case, _ please _, just tell me.”

McGonagall opened her mouth, then closed it with nothing but a sigh. She paced around the room, to peer past a curtain into what Hermione assumed was her private quarters. She mumbled, and a voice mumbled back.

Neville emerged, his head hung low and his bottom lip stuck out. He looked eleven again, terrified of McGonagall who smiled at him with a fondness his grandmother could never exude.

“Hi Hermione.” He didn’t look at her.

“Neville,” Hermione swiped at her red cheeks, to dry the tears she’d let fall. She hadn't even realized she'd started crying.

“I’m not in trouble, am I?” He was in his pajamas, much like Hermione.

“No, not at all.” She kept her voice warm for him, her hand on his shoulder. “Tell Ms. Granger what you told me.”

Nevile inhaled, shaky and anxious. “Uh -- d’you remember how Harry would see stuff, in his dreams?”

Hermione felt her heart rate spike, her hand clutched to her chest. “Are you having visions, Neville?”

“Not me!” He shook his head, his hands raised. “Malfoy is.”

Hermione’s head twitched sideways, her mouth popped open with a sneer.

“See usually, he has his curtains closed, and I never hear him snore.” Neville bounced on the spot, as he picked at his cuticles. “But, well, it’s funny actually. In t-the dorms, there’s this flower, or, it’s technically a cactus, epiphyllum oxypetalum -- uh, Queen of the Night, and it only blooms once a night, then it wilts. Each flower blooms individually, and, there were a few pods left, so -- “

Hermione tapped her foot, a mixture of intrigued by this plant, but far more invested in the whole _ Voldemort _ thing.

“S-So, I wanted to harvest them, because it’s -- they’re so rare -- and…”

“Mr. Longbottom,” McGongall prompted, her hand spun in small circles.

“Point being, I woke up, to collect the flower. But,” Neville centered his focus, his eyes closed. “But Malfoy was crying. He had his hands out ahead of him, like this,” he mimicked the pose, hands like claws and his arms rigid. “Like he was trying to grab someone.

“So, was he sleep talking?” Hermione put her hand beneath her chin and her elbow on her knee.. She tried not to picture Draco, silk pajamas no doubt, twisted up in white sheets and gauzy curtains. 

”No, not like, slurring or sleepy. Perfect sentences, and just -- really creepy, when you see it.” He let his arms drop. “Or, hear it, I guess.”

Hermione, pushed a thick lock of hair behind her ear, her brow furrowed. 

“Kept saying, _ please, _ and -- I think he was talking about his mum. He was begging Voldemort to let someone go, to stop hurting them, to take him instead.” Neville paused, his hands wrapped around one another. "He said, _I could kill you_, and... Stuff like that, but -- it was just weird. Word for word the sorta stuff Harry used to say..."

"I got brought here because Malfoy had a bad dream.." Hermione grit her jaw shut tighter, her mental picture of him only more bleak and traumatic as Neville spoke.

“N-No!" Neville squared his jaw and stood taller, anger directed no where in particular. "It's more than that. When Harry had those nightmares, the whole dorm felt… Cold. Like, when we were in the forest, when Voldemort was drinking that unicorn blood. Like when we were in the courtyard, and he was staring us down.” Neville gestured with a loose fist, in front of him. “And that’s how it felt then, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Longbottom.”

“I think he knows it happens, ‘cause he closes his curtains every night. Doesn’t make a sound otherwise...” He looked to McGonagall, who looked back to Hermione.

“Mr. Malfoy was a close confidant to Voldemort, during the war and leading up to it. There’s every chance that he’s still linked with Voldemort, willing or otherwise.” McGonagall sagged, her index finger and thumb pressed to her temples. 

“I’m still confused about what you want me to do about all this.”

“Wherever these nightmares are taking place could be somewhere Voldemort has secreted himself away.” McGonagall adjusted her glasses, to peer around the portraits. They were all pretending to be asleep, comically so. "We're unsure where, but it could be the Malfoy estate, given how long they spent there."

“Are you suggesting he has another Horcrux?”

"When he killed Harry, there's every chance history repeated itself; that he split into another Horcrux. How, we have no clue, but -- Dumbledore hadn't anticipated that. None of us had." McGonagall blinked back tears, a hard-line smile in place. She laughed, out of place, her teeth grit. “He had years of murder and chaos between his resurrection and his _ death _ \-- it wouldn’t be so out of the question that he split his soul one final time.”

“But whatever sliver of his soul is left must be so corrupted, it couldn’t possibly be enough to bring him back.”

“Perhaps not enough to bring him back,” McGonagall shook her head. “But he was a terrible creature who wanted even worse things for this world. I wouldn’t put it past him to secure a thousand souls, to pool their integrity together, to wretch himself back to life on the backs of the innocent.”

“Oh, er, I suppose,” Hermione smiled weakly, her hands folded on her lap. “If that’s even possible…”

“We don’t know right now what his plans are, if any. He could be so fragmented, that he's inert, but -- ” She swallowed hard, her hands set onto her desk. “All I ask is that you speak to Mr. Malfoy, and see if you can’t get a lead on where these dreams take place. Don’t pursue them on your own, of course, but make note.”

The pieces began to click together, as Hermione stared at the ancient carpet beneath her feet. “So you want me to interrogate him and pretend to be his friend."

“All I ask is that you help Mr. Malfoy, as you helped Harry.”

Hermione nodded, unsure what that meant. She hadn’t done much of anything for Harry and his dreams, except to tell him to talk to others about them. But they had been a vessel for information and acted as an insight into Hogwarts for Voldemort. It had been a two-way street, unwilling and traumatic for her best friend.

“Now, it’s past your curfew,” McGonagall waved her hands. “Off you go.”

"So, is that it then? I'm part of the Order now?"

"You and Mr. Longbottom -- " she waved a hand. "There's no secret handshake or blood exchange... It's an ideal, a principle you uphold."

"To protect those who cannot protect themselves?"

McGonagall smiled, her hands folded in front of her. "I'll call for you again, if anything comes to light."

Hermione and Neville set off for their greenhouse dorm, in companionable silence until they’d walked out the Great Hall doors.

“Why d’you think Malfoy came back here?” Neville had his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“No idea.” But she had several theories, that ranged from safety to self-flagellation.

“I was gonna come back anyway,” Neville shrugged. “Professor Sprout said she’d take me on this year as an apprentice, ages ago. Just worked out nicely.” He smiled, a warm smile. His teeth were straight now, and he was a far sight more mature than the boy who’d asked her to Yule Ball in their fourth year.

"That suits you, Neville." Hermione smiled up at him, sleep hitting her square in the head. She was so tired, and had slept terribly all week.

“Why did you come back?”

Hermione smiled, the corners of her lips deepened into the curve of her cheek. “No idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 11 hermione: I have no intention of messing around with Draco.  
chapter 12 hermione: I guess I have to mess around with Draco.
> 
> :')))


	13. decipher the disaster.

> ** _September 8th, 1998. Let the classes begin._ **

Hermione sat in the Hospital Wing, coated in black sludge. Part of her was aware that this could have been far worse, and the inky black substance wasn't the worst thing she'd been admitted here for. At least she could still _see_, as compared to the blonde-haired boy beside her, who she'd had to escort to the Hospital Wing, who's hand she'd held for the past half hour.

Perhaps she was ahead of herself.

* * *

"This is a disaster!"

"It isn't all that bad, Ginny."

Hermione ruffled her Daily Prophet, sleepless and ever exhausted. She had managed to get in several hours, but they hadn't been restful. She had worried and rolled all night, though that made it worse.

"Ron is never gonna let me live this down," she whined. "You don't understand, Hermione! You don't get Quidditch!"

As if summoned by the concept, as always, Oliver Wood jogged over to their table. He ran a broad hand through Ginny's hair, cackling madly.

"Holy Harpies got decimated by the Chudley Cannons!"

"I won't hesitate to jinx you, Wood!"

He relented, with no broom in hand but instead deep scarlet robes. He looked dressed for classes that day, though Hermione had to wonder how active the Flying classes really were.

The pair babbled about points and scores and fouls, which left Hermione with a confused squint to her features. She did her best to hide her confusion, and nodded when she felt it was correct.

" -- Tense shouldn't have been flying. She's rubbish, and they knew it!" Ginny threw her toast down, which splashed her eggs onto the table.

"They were short a player, it happens."

"Well -- it -- ruddy -- well -- shouldn't!" Each word was punctuated with a stab of her fork, as she collected her re-scrambled eggs. She shoved them into her mouth, no less livid as she chewed.

"Is it really that big a deal?" Hermione hummed, as quiet as she could manage.

"D'you know how insufferable Ron gets about his Cruddy Cannons?"

"I daresay there are more important things to worry about than who beat whom in a competitive sport."

Oliver and Ginny stared at Hermione, quizzical then dismissive.

"If she actually understood it, maybe she'd get it," Oliver shrugged, a smirk thrown over his shoulder. He was off towards the teacher's table before Hermione could chew his ear off.

"I understand it!" Hermione called after him. "I just think it's -- it's senseless!"

Several girls nearby watched Oliver as he walked away, and then shot Hermione a look of annoyance.

As if she were the bad guy for mocking their pet crush.

She growled through a mouthful of oatmeal, at her lack of sleep and at the insinuation that she didn't understand the basics of Quidditch.

Hoops, balls, hoorah, it wasn't that hard.

She realized that she'd made the mistake of sitting with her face out towards the rest of the hall. It left her in the prime position to scour the crowds, and in turn, her eyes locked with Draco's.

It happened far too often for her liking; as if he wanted it to happen.

Then again, she had just screamed across the hall at a teacher, which half the school deigned necessary to stare at.

But his attention slid from her, as soon as she noticed him, to instead angle towards the teacher's table. He seemed more peeved than usual, his silver brow arched, and his lips focused down.

He had always hated Wood, though. No doubt he was annoyed that their Quidditch referee would be a Gryffindor alumnus. Though Draco wouldn't be on the team; none of the Eighth years would be.

How petty much he be, to harbour a rivalry from four years ago.

As breakfast rounded off, Hermione headed towards her first class.

It was a strange arrangement, as Hermione waited outside the Ancient Runes classroom with the other Seventh and Eighth years. She saw Paige, Parvarti, Padma and Abigail grouped to one side of the rows, and her stomach sunk to her feet.

Of course.

Hermione did her best to avoid their eye, as if she were ignorant to the fact she was the odd one out. They shared their dorm and were no doubt close. While Paige and Hermione had been on somewhat okay terms, she wasn’t that close to her.

In truth, she didn’t want to force herself into their little group, nor did she want to appear lonely.

“Why aren’t you with them?”

Hermione looked up at Draco, heat flooded into her cheeks and chest. He seemed to have picked up her loner status and took it upon himself to mock her about it. He appeared to be alone, which made her wonder if any of his fellow Slytherins deigned necessary to study Ancient Runes.

Ernie Macmillian walked over to Paige and Padma, which added to their numbers. She turned her gaze away when another Hufflepuff boy slid up to them.

She could join them…

Hermione shrugged a shoulder, noncommittal. “I was standing here first,” she ticked her chin in their direction and smiled. They smiled back, in acknowledgment. They collectively seemed to dismiss Draco, however. They hadn’t even looked at him.

The strangest sensation hung over Hermione, as Draco lingered by her side. It was almost as if he had something to say, which made it all the stranger. She willed herself to look up at him, but he remained cool and distracted by a tapestry opposite of them.

“They were donated, I was told,” Hermione waved a hand at them. “Luna said they had, ah, different ones last year, and that they were burned during – “ she froze, her eyelashes fluttered before she drew her hand back to her chest.

“I know they were donated” He frowned.

Hermione looked back to the tapestry, which showed a spread of snakes and dragons all intertwined. Some were edged with silver while others had a deep onyx gem. Each had eyes and teeth, with too many small details to take in all at once.

“They’re from your family, aren’t they.”

Draco shrugged, like a heavy coat had been dropped on him.

“They’re beautiful.” Hermione meant it, even if they evoked the deepest depths of Slytherin with every stitch. It was a kind gesture, to refurnish the castle and to help return the place to normalcy.

When he remained silent, she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She didn’t know if he meant to stand near her, or if he were simply avoiding all the others of their year. She saw Seventh years begin to bunch up, deep in conversation about their holidays and their week off.

The week off had been a nice idea, Hermione had decided. It allowed the First years a chance to understand the place, and she had to hope it’d prevent them from getting lost or worse. Not to mention the extra time it allowed for them to ensure the castle was safe and secure.

“I don’t need your pity, you know.”

Hermione almost missed that, given how soft he spoke.

The classroom door popped open, and out came Professor Babbling. She had long, dirty blonde hair and wide eyes. If someone were to tell Hermione that she was Luna’s long lost aunt, Hermione would believe them without question. While she lacked the eccentric traits, she maintained the look of the Lovegood family.

"Welcome, welcome,” waved them in, a smile across her face. Hermione avoided looking at the newly formed scar from her left eye to the corner of her mouth. She didn’t need to know how it’d happened.

The Seventh years took their seats closer to the front, while the Eighth years sat towards the back. It was unclear how these classes would be run, exactly, but there wasn’t enough of either class to have a dedicated lesson.

Hermione was seated in the back right corner next to Draco, as the others took to their own paired seats. She didn’t have friends, and as it happened, neither did he.

Draco got up and moved to an empty desk, at the very back row. This left two empty rows of desks behind them, and Hermione became even more aware of how empty their classes had become. She lingered on what Professor Ayers had said, about some Muggleborns opting out of magic altogether.

It helped to distract her from being left on a desk, alone, by Draco Malfoy.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Babbling called, bemused as she leaned against her desk. “I don’t want to shout all the way to the back for your behalf. Sit back down next to Ms. Granger.”

The class giggled, and Hermione turned a crisp apple red. She bunched her hands in front of her, a pout on her lips and a cross furrow to her brows.

He slinked back into his seat beside her, angled away and rigid as a corpse.

Professor Babbling began the lesson, and Hermione felt the world melt away. It was serene, the practice of taking notes and reading handouts. She was given her outline for the semester, as well as the expectations for their exams.

She ignored the fact Draco had taken no notes. He instead spent the lesson with his gaze fixed out the window.

“In the interest of reacquainting ourselves with the practice of Ancient Runes, we’ll be doing a little decoding exercise.” She pushed a massive lock of blonde hair behind her ear, the Irish lilt to her voice more prominent when she was excited.

Draco made a sound, the first and only thing he'd done to suggest he was still alive thus far. He adjusted his posture, though he remained distant from Hermione.

The work appeared across the chalkboard with the wave of her wand, and Hermione set to work on decoding the origin.

It was Germanic runes, which was _easy_, and then she began to break down the consonants. There were two alphabets, the ones that matched across with English, and then the ones that more closely resembled the original Germanic texts. One was similar to cracking a code, while the other was more in line with translating a language.

She paused, her quill covered in ink, as she looked to Draco. He'd not moved except to turn further away from her. It was a little disheartening, in truth. She ignored McGonagall's request, for her to get to know Draco better. He wanted nothing to do with her.

The rest of the class had soft conversations bubbling between them, some joking, others flirty. She exhaled a deep sigh and moved her parchment closer to him.

"Do you know what it is?"

"What?" He snapped.

"Do you know what dialect this is?"

"They're not grading participation. Why waste my time?"

Hermione nearly snapper her quill. "You should be doing it for the practice."

"Are you suggesting I'm an idiot who can't decipher tripe like _'welcome back to Hogwarts'._" He peered down his nose. "And you misspelled '_welcome_', you know."

Hermione snatched her paper back, teeth bared as she looked over her work. "I didn't misspell anything!"

Draco smirked, and pointed with one long digit. "Right there -- oops." And jerked his elbow, which in turn knocked her ink over, onto the desk and across her work.

"Oops nothing -- !" Hermione cast a deft cleaning charm, which unfortunately deigned necessary to clean her work off, too. She scrunched the parchment between her hands and threw it at Draco.

"Mr. Malfoy! Ms. Granger!"

Draco was laughing, _fucking_ laughing, while Hermione felt tears form in her eyes. She was eleven again, her bottom lip bit between her teeth and her cheeks too red.

"I suspect you've worked out the riddle?"

"Of course, Professor." Draco waved a hand, a handsome frown plastered to his face. How could someone so insufferable still be _handsome_?

"I worked it out but -- "

"But unfortunately this _butterfingers_ spilt her ink all over our work in her excitement, and cleaned her parchment too thoroughly." He pouted. "My work got ruined."

Professor Babbling looked at Hermione, who wanted nothing more than to explode. "Be more careful, Mr. Granger." She misinterpreted Hermione's blush as an admission of guilt, as she tutted her tongue. "I know Runes can be exciting but speed cannot compete with accuracy." She resumed her rounds, to check on the others.

"Why would you blame me?" Hermione hissed, low enough to avoid detection.

Malfoy shrugged, as he tucked his hand beneath his chin. "Why not?"

"Because it was your fault!"

"Consider it revenge," he battered a hand in the air, as if he were after a moth. He worked his tongue against his teeth, as if something he'd had for breakfast had lodged itself there. As if he weren't the most insufferable prick in the school.

"Revenge?!" Hermione snapped her attention around, as the Seventh and Eighth years all pivoted to stare at them. She pinched her lips shut with her teeth, her eyes watering. They turned back to their sheaves of parchment. None of them seemed to be trying very hard. Like this was fun. Like this was just another _holiday_.

"Well, eavesdropping, I'm still hurt about that," he spoke, slow and languid. "Add onto that your eerie obsession with my family."

Hermione tilted her head at him, as if a change in angle would help her understand his point. He shot her a look, once-over. She preferred when he ignored her, or merely stared at her from across the Great Hall.

"I don't have an obsession with your family," she stuffed her unused textbooks and her notes into her bag, a blush hung across all her exposed skin. He was insufferable, and annoying, and had succeeded in getting under her skin. It was probably what he _wanted_.

"I saw the list," his teeth clacked from how hard his jaw clenched. "Or is that your idea of doing me a _favor_? Or do you and your little Weasley clan have a good laugh about it, watching my family and I get arrested? You find it funny, Granger?"

"It wasn't any of that," Hermione winced, at the thought she would enjoy _anyone_ being sentenced to Azkaban. There was a sick pleasure in people like the Lestranges, but even then, she'd not celebrate their arrests. Even if they were dead or worse by now.

"So what is it, then? What's got you searching all the Daily Prophets for our Azkaban trials as if that's any of _your_ business."

"It is my business," Hermione shot up, "your dear aunt made sure of _that._"

Hermione took her leave, her satchel slung over her shoulder and her head dipped down low. She heard Professor Babbling question her. She didn't really care, and that hurt worst of all. Malfoy had some skewed importance as if she cared whether or not he went to Azkaban. She didn't _want_ him to, and she'd offer to testify, but she'd not been asked to do so. He probably didn't know or care about that, as it was simply words.

Or maybe he'd call her creepy, for giving a shit about him when no one else really seemed to.

All she wanted to do was to return, to study, and she wanted to be able to focus. She wanted to go to her lessons, to have fun and to learn. She wanted to contribute to her classes, and more than anything, she wanted to forget everything.

It was close to the end of class anyway and she could explain to Professor Babbling later that she'd felt ill. She was a teacher's pet, she knew that, and she was an Eighth year. She didn't believe the penalty for running out of class would outweigh the horror of sitting next to _Malfoy_ like a scorned child.

"Are you that -- _sensitive_ \-- "

Hermione was yanked backward by the elbow, her hair whipped across her face and her mouth drawn into a fierce sneer. "Don't _touch _me!"

Malfoy released her, no hurt or pressure to his touch. It was more like a ghost, cold and indifferent, like him, _always_ like him. He looked at her with the same exposed tragedy he'd worn the first time she'd seen him in Flourish and Blotts, like she wasn't real, like he expected his hand to go straight through her.

The seconds of vulnerability melted, all the way back to the glacier cruelty. He tipped his head back to look down his nose at her, and she couldn't see even a sliver of the boy she'd say was objectively handsome. He was vile, at his core, through and through. 

"You get told off once, and you rush out of class?" Malfoy said, his hand latched to his satchel while his other hand was dug into his robes.

"As if I left because of that!" Hermione stepped back from him, to allow herself to draw her wand. "Even you can't be that dense!"

Malfoy stared at her, at the wand, and worked his jaw in such tight circles that she heard it _click_.

"This could be a fresh start for _all_ of us, but you choose to remain a -- a _bully_ \-- _why_?" She wished she weren't crying, so she could sound as intimidating as she wanted to. Instead, she blubbered, like a jilted girlfriend instead of a harassed woman.

"Why are _you_ digging into my family, Granger? What are you hoping to find?"

Hermione swallowed, visibly and with great difficulty. "I'm not _digging_ into your family." She shook her head, her lips parted as she scoffed out her confusion.

"Oh? So that list you wrote -- I'm just another _thing_ to study to you?"

Hermione felt like lighting cracked across her vision, as she saw the shape of Draco hunched over the book in the dorm. His hair was silver in the limited moonlight, and he was handsome again. He had the list in front of him, the one where she'd cataloged his family's movements and press appearances. She blinked at the image, so vivid she felt the same pang of anxiety as if she could reach out and stop him from reading her scratched theories.

A flash of recognition surfaced in his face. As if he'd seen what she had.

"Did you just use _Legillimens_ \-- " Her cheeks plumed red again, and she felt like Professor Ayers.

"_What?_" Draco made a face, somewhere between scared and cocky, a strange, ugly mix that she hated. As if he'd surprised even himself with the ability as if he'd not meant to do it.

"How _dare_ \-- !"

"Why would I _want_ to pry into your thick little head, Granger?" He snorted. "As if I'd want to see Weasley and you -- "

Another flash, they were thrown forward, to the Leaky Cauldron, the night that she'd Apparated there, stalking through Diagon Alley. Then the Burrow, the old oak tree that she'd relaxed under, Ron's hand on her thigh, his teeth on her neck. They didn't stay there long, whether by her choice or his.

The funerals, the battle, all so rapid it was like going down a rollercoaster backward. All of these memories sat too close to the surface, in her mind, pressed into every second of her life. She walked on the bodies of those she'd failed to save, and those she'd yet to save. She was surrounded by her failures, and they ran rapid clip through her mind. She felt cold air slam into her chest as time slowed as if she were free, but it wasn't Hogwarts, it was the Malfoy mansion, Bellatrix poised over her, knife in hand -- 

She can't see this, she can't _do_ this, not again.

"_Atramento_!"

It had been the first spell on her tongue, one based on the idea of ink from class and blindness. She blamed the way he'd embarrassed her in class, and now torn through her thoughts like they were tissue paper around a present not meant for him.

In a dim, dark way, she had never expected him to do such a thing.

In an even dimmer, darker way, she should have.

The blackness settled, her head ached and her breath was uneven. She saw him sprawled on the floor, hands on his face. He coughed up some of the thick, black ink and blinked around, as if in search of her.

No threats, no apologies. He looked pathetic, and she stupidly _felt_ for him.

She ignored their classmates, who'd come out of the classroom in those short few minutes. It must have only been a minute or two that she was spun up in those thoughts, her chest aching and her throat gunked up with her own ink. It was a spell made in the image of a squid, and it had been a stupid choice, but she didn't know anything that wouldn't potentially _permanently_ blind him.

"Get up, you _arse_," she muttered, as she yanked Malfoy to his feet. She should have left him, floundering like a drunk toddler on the ground.

"Don't _touch_ me," He could at least hear her.

"Ha ha, rich," Hermione grabbed his hand, against her better judgment. She cleaned the worst of it off, but her focus was to get him to the Hospital Wing before the ink permanently blinded him. He looked more like a rat, all gunked up and squinting through the black ink. He spat along the way, and she felt nothing but content with the damage she'd inflicted.

They didn't speak, not about why she had his hand in hers, or where they were going. 

They didn't speak as Madame Pomfrey came over, to administer some potions to Malfoy, to expel the ink from his eyes and out of his lungs.

They didn't even speak as he found her, his ice-blue eyes finally clear. She didn't even look at him, and refused to meet his eye.

He spoke, though.

"I'm -- I'm sorry."

Hermione wished he'd stayed silent, as she didn't know what to do with such a forthright apology. She frowned at him and shook her head. 

"I didn't mean to," he spoke, low and soft. "I didn't think it'd work, it's never worked... I didn't realize it _would..._"

"And yet you kept going." Hermione shook her head again, her ankles crossed and her head dropped low. They had missed History of Magic, if he were enrolled. She didn't care if he missed it, and knowing Professor Ayers, it'd be a bunch of mumbling and stuttering. She'd get notes from Paige, who shared a lot of her classes. They had a good, academic relationship in that way.

They sat in silence for a long while. Hermione wanted to speak, to ask him why, to ask him what he _hoped_ to see and to ask if he was happy with himself. She felt gross, inside and out, but she also felt responsible for all the black gunk he spewed every few minutes.

It was technically a Dark Arts spell, after all.

"You know Draco," Hermione found her voice, even though she'd long since thought she'd lost it. "If you _really_ must know, I was checking into your family because I wanted to make sure you were okay." She laughed, so close to tears again. "I really just wanted to know if you were okay, because -- I never really thought you were capable of cruelty. Not true cruelty, nothing more than being a pain in hallways, or mocking my teeth."

He stared up at the ceiling, dejected, and she saw the same boy she'd seen all of their Sixth year, suffering in silence.

"I don't know what you were hoping to see, but -- " Hermione recalled the flashes of herself and Ron, which made her want to be ill. "If you want to _know_ things about me in future, you can just ask." She trusted her voice and it failed her, as it cracked. "I don't know how you were taught things were, or how things were last year, but I'd like to think you're better than that."

She watched him swallow, once, before he threw up another time. It was bile this time, clear and sickly.

Good.

"I'll leave you and your family alone. I won't even look at you," she gave herself a once-over, to make sure she was free of the marks from her own spell's miscast. She wouldn't meet his eye for fear he'd exploit it again, but she didn't want to clarify that. She watched him melt into the bed, sickly and angry all at once. "It's funny -- I'm so _stupid_. I tried to defend you, even after everything, and I'd still defend you because I don't think you're as awful as you think you are."

"Do you really think about my aunt that often?" He looked at her. "It was right there, not even..."

"You of all people should know not to ask about that sort of thing," Hermione pushed her hair behind her ear as she pivoted away from the bed.

"Excuse me?"

Hermione looked at her forearm, then to his. Her brow arched at him, and he shoved his arms beneath the blanket.

She suspected that he didn't want an answer as much as she didn't want to give one. The frown on his face and the way he stared into the distance cemented that.

"Oh, here, have something to read," she tossed a book from her satchel onto his bedside table.

_"A Comprehensive Guide To Giant Mating Migration Patterns."_

A note stuck out of the side, in a floral font that she'd spent an extra half hour trying to perfect. It sat beneath his this time, as she feared he might have forgotten his own message;

_I appreciate your concern regarding my future wife, but you may rest easy knowing it will never be, Granger. I hope you are happy with Hagrid, given you will have free reign of the grounds and the **Library**._

_\- DM_

_~~~_

_Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy, of Slytherin prestige and Pigheaded Priciples_

_For more reasons than I can explain, I would rather elope with the Giant Squid than even look in your direction. I would rather eat a Flobberworm than touch you. I would prefer to streak through Hogsmeade in January than pretend for a second that I hold you in any fondness. Please consider this your final warning, and keep this book as a reminder for what a complete and absolute prick you are and will continue to be._

_Unkind regards,_

_H.J.G._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason for everything. I hope it's not too shitty of him but -- we will get to it. >_>;;


	14. of agrimony and aconite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   


> _ **September 11th, 1998. Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble.** _

The first week of classes came to an unfortunate close, as Hermione found herself subjected to double Potions. Given the limited number of students who chose this class, it was a mish-mash of the four houses. There was yellow, blue, red and green peppered around, with no clear division between them.

And, by unfortunate coincidence, it was a class Hermione shared with no Eighth year other than Malfoy.

(He had been demoted due to his invasion of her space for the foreseeable future.)

The limited numbers made sense; Severus Snape had made the class impossible for all his students to enjoy, so most left it behind long ago. With this lost interest and dispassionate tutelage, few students had the pure knowledge to ascend to N.E.W.T. level potioneering.

Worse yet, the Slytherins had ruled the campus from these depths. Countless students had been dragged here by the Carrows. The trip down had been pockmarked with stains and erosion, from spells and from blood (she hoped it was only blood).

She stared at the scratched stone and busted sconces, unsure if it had always been so miserable.

Hermione hadn't spoken to Malfoy since Monday, when he had raked his fingers through her mind in search of something. She still had no idea what he'd been after or if he'd found it. She wanted to ask, but it was another question in a column of things she'd simply never know.

Malfoy had kept his distance, and she had done the same in kind. With no other Eighth year in her class, if they had any level of partner work, it'd be expected that they work together. She watched as he fussed with his signet ring, round and round, with emeralds inlaid bright and proud within the silver. An ornate portrait framed the emerald, but he fussed with it too much for her to see it clearly, though.

In their Seventh year they were expected to check in on their work over the weekend, hence the late lesson on a Friday afternoon. Some potions took days or weeks to cure, and this flexibility allowed them time to ensure their work was correct.

It didn't make the dynamic of Double Potions any less miserable.

The silken swish of luxe robes announced Professor Selwyn, who Hermione had successfully avoided since the weekend. He didn't seek her out, which surprised her.

It was eerie to see him stand nearby Malfoy, as they shared the same nose and jawlines. They spoke in soft tones, about nothing in particular. She saw them laugh and smile, briefly, but it melted just as fast. They pivoted as a pair, to stare down Hermione. it was lunch at Cibus Cafe all over again.

This was far worse than being ignored.

The class funneled in, and Hermione felt like a pit in her stomach. She sat as far from Draco as she could conceivably get.

"Unpack your ingredients, if you please," Selwyn instructed, loose and languid. 

Hermione unpacked her book and her kit, her head bowed low. Selwyn watched the class as they dug into their kits, and met Hermione's eye as she set down her quill.

"Ms. Granger," Selwyn spoke, his voice silkier than she expected. "You're not a Seventh year, are you?"

"No, Professor." She paused, her hand hovered over her quill. She expected people to laugh as she was directly addressed, but the cool air of the dungeons had them all on edge.

"Then put your supplies away," he waved a hand. "You don't see Mr. Malfoy spreading across Seventh year workspaces, do you?"

Hermione stared Selwyn down, incensed in a way she'd not felt since Umbridge had taken them in Defense Against the Dark Arts. "But we're expected to make potions, aren't we? I know, we're not being graded on participation, but this --"

"If you had waited for my instruction, your question would have been answered." Selwyn smiled, wrought in Malfoy charm but with none of the elegance. It was like someone who'd practiced smiling in a mirror, and never let it meet their eyes.

Hermione packed away her kit, dubious at best. Malfoy sat, none of his supplies out, not even parchment.

"As we have two skillsets in place, with two Eighth years who are barely at the level of Sixth years -- " he looked between Hermione and Malfoy, no pity for either of them. "I will be instructing the Seventh years for the majority of our sessions. You two will have time after class, when I'm able to ensure you do things _correctly_."

Hermione opened her mouth, but before she could speak Selwyn waved a hand. The board began to fill with instructions, as every other class. It listed their exam dates, their expected proficiencies, and more information than Hermione could glean from one look.

"I understand that you had a consistent education until two years ago," he began, cooler and more collected than Hermione expected. Something in him struck her as unhinged, or vague, but that melted away as he looked around. He looked less like the man who had mocked her for her fear of a Horcrux, and more like a teacher. The unkempt edges of his appearance reminded her of Remus, rather than an Azkaban inmate. She had to remind herself that he'd been _imprisoned_, and that it wasn't as if he'd had anything easy.

Not that he made empathy easy, with his sour his attitude had been.

"I want to take a moment, to clear the air. This was a place of education, that was sullied in the interest of a war that was never yours." He tensed his mouth, and sucked at his teeth before he continued. "As someone who lost everything in the war, I can't help but empathize with you on that level. I was a student here, once, and this place was a sanctuary to me. In time, it became a prison."

With his tied-back blonde hair and rich green robes, this was the last thing she expected out of him. He looked over the room with a deep melancholy, and a pause so long that Hermione wasn't sure he would continue.

"Headmistress McGongall spoke on the matter, I'm sure, but I wanted to extend a personal sympathy to you all." He swept his hand, to illuminate the classroom, which brought the dank dungeon to a homely glow. It reminded her more of Slughorn's classroom, minus the tension of the Half-Blood Prince. "All of you have lost friends, relatives, more than any generation before you, and in a place you trusted."

Hermione looked at Malfoy, who was leaned on his elbows with his gaze fixed on Professor Selwyn. He looked bored, save for the tension in his shoulders and the grit to his teeth beneath marble skin.

_Handsome again; prick._

"So many people have failed you, repeatedly, and for that I'm deeply -- " he paused, to swallow hard. "I'm sorry, to you all. None of you deserved the tragedies that have haunted your generation. I hope through these classes I can prepare you for not only future careers, but give you peace of mind "

These pretty words almost worked on her, until she met his eye and felt the same foreboding chill as she had through her Hogwarts career at large. Year after year the halls of Hogwarts harbored darkness from the Dark Lord, and she had to wonder if he had returned once again. She looked at Malfoy again, lips focused down to a nervous point.

She didn't look away from him, as two Slytherin girls giggled and clapped. Her gaze broke away from Malfoy, and she looked at Selwyn.

"To begin the semester on a lighter and easier note, we shall approach a catch-all cure. In case you blunder in future classes, you'll each create an antidote for your future self," he paused, a smirk in place. "Do yourself a favor and pay _attention_. I don't want to have to escort you to the Hospital Wing."

More giggles followed, and Hermione wanted to vomit into a nearby cauldron.

It was a rundown of a simple cure-all against Dark Magic, something based primarily on a bezoar. There were more steps than the traditional Antidote to Common Poisons, with the addition of agrimony and angelica. Essense of mugwort was also required, though it had to be stewed with motherwort.

Hermione watched as the Seventh years began their brewing, which left her with nothing to do.

She looked at her hands, then to Selwyn, who was standing at the front of the class with his head held high.

He seemed to have rested better, and perhaps the meals at Hogwarts had done him well. While he'd looked sickly during the holidays when she'd first seen him, he_ seemed_ livelier. There was a light to his complexion where before there had been shadows, but she still find issues with his profile. She didn't think he was handsome, not in the same way Malfoy was.

Not to mention that his pretty speech did little for her, as compared to the giggling Seventh year girls.

It smacked of Umbridge, and of false hope.

If he meant it, _truly,_ then it would carry throughout the semester. He would reflect those values in his actions, rather than in his words. It'd be so easy to simply speak kindly to the students, to win them over. There was some sick tactic here, she could feel it. Call it cynicism or personal bias, but from the whipcrack cruelty he'd greeted her with and the continued judgment, she was smarter than he seemed to realize.

But he had lost his parents, and almost died to Dementors from the sounds of the reports.

Hermione watched as Draco caught the wrist of the Ravenclaw girl beside him, across the rows of desks. She had gone to use the sprig of agrimony when she was meant to add chopped angelica. He explained in hushed tones why he'd stopped her, and she blushed a deep red as she corrected her approach. He smiled, pleased with himself, and she decided that was the end of that.

Hermione moved to sit beside Malfoy, not a word spoken edgewise. She unpacked some parchments and the gold quill that Emily had gifted her.

If Draco objected, he kept it to himself.

The classroom was full of chatter, so she felt less pressured to remain silent. She looked at Malfoy, who had his hand tucked beneath his chin. He hadn't bothered to hide the dark circles beneath his eyes, and that both pleased and worried her.

"I'm sorry, about Monday," Hermione began to note down the instructions. She didn't specify which part she was sorry for, because she really had nothing to be sorry for. Perhaps for the blinding him thing, but he'd _asked_ for that.

Draco began to take his notes from the board, as Hermione had.

There were open potions stations that they could make use of, and she thought to mention it to Selwyn. But he'd been clear, that they were meant to remain back and have a refresher on basic Potions methods given the gap in their education.

"He's your cousin, isn't he?" She looked to Draco, who didn't look at her. "Did you know? Before?"

Draco shook his head, though that could have been to combat the loose locks that fell into his eyes.

Hermione decided to focus on her work, as their silence continued. He hadn't tried to speak to her since Monday, and he had avoided her in every manner possible. He hadn't looked at her in the Great Hall, and he'd not passed back the book. That had become a -- a thing, hadn't it?

But no. There was nothing to salvage, but foolishly, she thought they'd gotten somewhere in the Hospital Wing.

She was the one who should be upset; he had pried through her mind.

Once the class had their potions to the boiling stage, where they'd have to stew overnight, Selwyn smirked. He walked back to the front of the classroom, his arms raised to gain their attention. He seemed confident, as if in his element. 

It was strange to see, same as before.

"I'll be gracious enough to see your potions into their final stage. You've all done sufficiently, and I want to ensure they act as intended." He looked at each of the students, who seemed at ease as compared to the dreary expectations.

Everyone began to pack up, which left Draco and Hermione in continued silence.

They were the only Eighth years, and given they weren't meant to participate...

What would Potions _be_ for them, if not practical?

The Seventh years left with no attention spared their way. One girl giggled as she passed Professor Selwyn, and Hermione couldn't hide how hard she rolled her eyes. These girls were desperate if they were interested in Selwyn, or Wood even. They were men at least five years older, and the mere thought caused Hermione's withered sense of maternal urges to spark.

She couldn't imagine how awful Seventh year would have been, and if people had giggled over Binns or Flickwick in the same way. People seemed pathetically invested in anyone even halfway sufficient.

"Draco," Selwyn exhaled, low and resigned. "Hermione."

Hermione failed to disguise her shock, in how her mouth popped open and her brows hiked up her forehead. She rushed to a new piece of parchment as if that'd make up for her surprise.

The room felt so much smaller now. She became keenly aware of how alone she was, with two men who'd spent their past year as victims to the Dark Lord in their own ways.

"I won't be making you do pointless busywork," he smiled, again, but he improved with practice. "I've been assisting the werewolf clan that's settled within the Forbidden Forest. As such, you will both help in the production of Wolfsbane Potion."

Draco seemed unfazed, as he unpacked his kit. He had far more ingredients than Hermione had, beyond the realm of required herbs and animal offal.

"I don't have -- "

Selwyn pulled a large kit up from behind his desk, which he stuck his arm into. It went further than was possible, and Hermione recognized the interior had been expanded.

"I trust you're proficient in creating potions," Selwyn smirked, which he offered with ease. "Something tells me you'd be able to handle even the most complex elixirs."

Draco snorted, unkind, and set up to grab the portions ingredients.

"I would traditionally handle this alone, however there is far too many minute steps and only a short matter of weeks before the next full moon. We need to act quickly and with care," he handed over handwritten sheets, with careful instructions etched into each.

"Grim," a pitchy voice carried through the stonework, and broke Hermione's focus "You can't keep avoiding -- oh."

"Catherine, as you can see I'm still in session," he gestured, stiff and distant. "Is this really the time."

"Oh! So I'm _Catherine_ again?! No _Kittyi?"_ She had her fists clutched her sides, furling and unfurling. "Honestly, _is it the time -- _you tell me!"

"I would argue no."

"Oh! Well! I would argue _yes_!" She hissed through her teeth. "You've been here a week and you won't even talk to me-- "

Selwyn tongued his incisor, shoulders tense. He ushered Ayers out of the room, though their shouts could be heard from the classroom.

Hermione thought on it, and failed to think of a time she had seen Professor Ayers and Professor Selwyn in the same place at the same time. She hadn't thought much of it, but given the way Ayers spoke...

"They were engaged," Draco dug out a paper bag from his kit, not looking away from his instructions.

Hermione exhaled, heavy and loud. She was torn, between trying to repair what fragile attachment she had with Draco, and her painful curiosity over what a pair like Ayers and Selwyn must look like. She settled for neither, anxious to begin the Wolfsbane Potion. It was renown for it's difficulty. At first, she suspected that Selwyn had wanted to mock their abilities and section them off in the interest of shaming Hermione, but now she realized it was to prevent other students from questioning why they were given a different potion to brew.

"You knew about the werewolves," Hermione worked her pestle, her brow raised. He hated how she asked about his family, and she didn't want to ask about Monday, about why he'd used Legilimens.

"A group defected, fought against the Death Eaters." He lifted a few fragile roots from his paper bag, though he had twice the recommended amount. "They were offered safety while they recovered."

"They're still hurt?"

Draco chopped the roots, and Hermione resisted the urge to tell him he had too much. "They have a newly turned girl with them; she's young and new to the transformations." He parted his lips with his tongue, as he measured the chopped roots into two equal portions. "Besides, they'd be stupid to move on from somewhere that offers Wolfsbane Potion at no cost to them."

"And the school can afford this?"

"_We_ insisted on it," Draco placed the measured portion in front of Hermione, and kept one portion for himself.

"Why?"

Draco gently placed his knife down, his hands bunched on the table in front of him. "You of all people should know not to ask about that sort of thing."

Hermione looked down, her own words echoed back to her.

"Imagine getting marked because someone decided it would be in your best interest," he heaved a sigh through his teeth and began to measure out some moonstone dust. "Imagine being half-aware of the pain you cause others."

"You didn't choose -- ?"

"You think I _chose_ this, Granger?" He kept his voice icy and distant, and she wished he'd yell or scream or something. "For someone who's meant to be smart, you can be so thick."

Hermione set to work, as she tried to follow the instructions that had been laid out for her. She followed step by step and tried not to notice how Malfoy would portion out ingredients for her without asking if she needed them. He had done this before, and she didn't want to ask why. Instead, she focused on doing her best, for the sake of those who were relying upon her.

In a strange way, she preferred this.

She was so used to being the one in charge, who was looked upon for instructions or for clarity. She didn't thrive under such pressure, and in truth, she enjoyed following others' leads. Not all the time, and not in all avenues, but there was some serenity in watching Draco cut up each ingredient, long fingers deft with a knife or a ruler.

"When you were speaking with Blaise," she found her voice, finally, terribly. "You said Muggleborn."

"What?"

Hermione paused, and looked at Draco with a heavy frown on her lips. "When you were up with Blaise, when -- I heard you talking, you said Muggleborn."

"And?" He spat, and she wished she'd missed how his throat and ears went pink. "That's what you are, isn't it?"

Hermione had to force herself from grinning, her heart too quick in her chest over such a trivial thing. "Nevermind."

Draco watched her as if she'd gone off the deep end. Hermione watched him in quiet reverence, surprised she could find any elegance in the craft of potions. It was late, far later than Potions was meant to run, but she was happy to be here. It was good to know they were helping those who had helped them, and that Selwyn trusted them.

She watched the arch of his throat as he mumbled the instructions to himself, or how he'd smirk if he managed to cut the perfect portion by chance. She could hear the low rumble of Selwyn and Ayers outside, as they argued about things that Hermione had no idea of.

"You said," Hermione broke the silence, her head tipped. "That they used to be engaged."

"War does that." He snatched up a vial of lemongrass and garlic, which had been steeped in the venom of an asp. "Has a way of changing your wants and views."

"So he broke it off?"

Draco flexed a nervous smile, as if he'd said to much. He shook his head, and resumed his measurements.

_She had._

Hermione stared at the door, at the conversation she wished she could hear. But she had a potion to mind, and immediate concerns. They continued to amicable silence, something she'd thought impossible at the start of class. She followed his lead, and allowed him to correct her, as he had with the girl from Ravenclaw.

Hermione was good at potions, but she could admit that Draco was far more skilled than her.

"It's nice to see you enjoying yourself."

Draco started, and he almost dropped the ladle into his cauldron. "Excuse me?"

Hermione laughed, genuine and loud, and she had to cover her mouth with her robes. She blushed, from the heat of the potions, and from the fierce look he'd shot her.

"This is _work_, Granger, just because you're slacking off -- "

Both her hands clapped to her face, as she tried not to laugh too loud. The angrier he arced up, the worse her laughter became. His eyes were wild with anger, but no malice. It was strange to be on the receiving end of such a look, especially after Monday... Her blood went cold as she made herself look away, at anything else.

"Intricate work helps," he shrugged, his fingers raked through his overgrown blonde hair. It wasn't long, not like Ron's had been in Fourth year, but enough to fall into his eyes when he looked down. Which, by coincidence, always happened when he glared down at Hermione.

Though the glares lacked the same edge as they used to have.

"I trust your laughter is in triumph," Selwyn spoke, as he brushed through the aisle. He seemed impressed at what he saw, as both potions simmered at the recommended temperature.

"Always," Draco smirked, as he recovered from his fit of prissy rage.

"These will need to simmer," he used his ring finger to shove his hair out of his face, which had come loose from his ponytail. Hermione noticed the rich diamond ring he wore, embedded in bronze. "You're dismissed."

Draco and Hermione packed up in silence, though Hermione was smiling more than she ever had after Double Potions.

She pretended not to notice how Draco packed as she did, though he could have been finished far sooner than her.

Or how he lingered, as he picked at his nails.

Or how he gestured for her to walk through the door first, the epitome of Slytherin and Malfoy manners.

"Are you bothering with dinner?" He kept his voice light and distant as if he were killing the time it'd take to get back to the Ground Floor.

"Hm, I should," Hermione realized she'd not eaten since lunch, which was half a day ago now. The night outside had set in, and she imagined they'd missed the formal dinnertime. There were additional meals, every half hour, but they were much smaller and consolidated to one table rather than all of them. Some students had Quidditch or studied too late, and so the kitchen would accommodate.

"There you are, Draco!"

Emily bounced towards them as they reached the top step, as she flashed a brilliant white smile at him.

"Actually," Hermione stumbled and shook her head. "I had to see Professor Ayers, about History of Magic."

And without another word she sped off towards the History of Magic classroom, as if Professor Ayers would be in there; as if she had any business being in there, so late at night.

Hermione imagined Draco would ask her to stay and that he'd to Emily that they had to discuss their exceptional performance at such a complicated potion, and she could continue to watch as he deftly cut at whatever he decided to eat, and -- what was that train of thought? She shook her head, deft and decisive. She had spent too much time around poisons, in the dim depths of the Potions classroom. She had swallowed something by mistake or poisoned herself with fumes.

"You don't understand."

Hermione kept her hand pressed against the door of the History of Magic classroom, which she'd cracked open.

"He won't let me see him, Sirius! He's not _well_. He needs me, I could help. I don't care how much rest he needs, he needs _me_." It was Ayers, who sucked in a thick breath. She was in tears, and that was all she managed to hear. She was hunched over her desk, babbling to her statuettes. "Sirius, you don't know what this is like!"

_"You know full well I do."_

Hermione gasped, as if the sound had been strangled out of her. She recognized that voice. Before she could catch anything further, Ayers eyes flashed in the dark, and Hermione stared back in terror.

"Oh, um, Professor!" She smiled, toothy and wide. "I -- I had a question?"

Professor Ayers fumbled and stood, her hands swiped across her face on repeat. "Hermione! Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, how can I help?"

"Er, were you -- "

"Talking to myself! I do all sorts of crazy voices, just, helps me think, you know!" She laughed, loud and too pitchy. "It's been -- ah, don't worry about me, I'll -- it's something you -- um -- you needed to see me?"

"About class, I missed Monday, and I hadn't -- "

"Oh, nevermind that, just make sure you turn up next time!" Ayers waved her hands at Hermione, her breathing irregular and her face beet red. "You only missed the outline, and I'm sure Ms. Yoon could give that to you."

"Of course, Professor." Hermione shot a skeptical look at Professor Ayers. She looked at her desk, but the door slammed in her face.

_Curiouser and curiouser._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡o ͜ʖ ͡o) When things get weirder before they get clearer. (Also holy toledo, the Draco/Hermione potion brewing segment, AH.) Also also, Firefly by Ed Sheeran for that whole bit, thank you for your time.
> 
> Also, would you be curious to see excerpts of character interactions that Hermione isn't privy to? Not any time soon, but perhaps a separate (shorter) works from other characters' perspectives. I don't think they'd be fully-fledged stories, but I have a whole bunch written from other character's perspectives, for the sake of writing Hermione's!


	15. the devil is in the details.

_ **September 13th, 1998.** _

There wasn't much Hermione could do with what Ayers had said. It had been a passing mention of a name she may have misheard, or someone else with a similar name. Hell, it could even _be_ another Sirius. It wasn't as if the name were so uncommon the magical sphere.

Further than that, if Sirius was alive, wouldn't he have made himself known to Harry at least?

He'd found countless ways to contact Harry through their Fourth and Fifth years. He was a clever man, who was capable of great secrecy.

Where was the sense in hiding?

These thoughts of Ayers and her broken engagement with Selwyn, along with every other thread she'd half-grasped, was put to the side. She needed time to focus on her studies and to get back to normalcy. The words Selwyn had slung at her, as if she were seeking darkness, stood out to her.

She wasn't looking for an excuse to get out of the school; she _wanted_ to be here, to resume her studies and in turn, her life.

Hermione was reclined in the Quidditch stands, which had been newly built. She had agreed to take notes on Ginny's behalf, as the girl whizzed past with a mouth full of curse words.

She rubbed at her eyes, which were rested after two full nights of sleep. It was mid afternoon Sunday, and she slept the better part of Saturday away. She didn't make a habit of sleeping in but she had made an exception.

It had been a nice reward and a good reset to her first two weeks.

"I cannot believe McRory came to try-outs." Ginny moaned, whizzing in circles in front of Hermione.

"Everyone is allowed to try out."

"But he's only here to make sure I don't pick someone who's a rule breaker or some shite!"

"Perhaps he's trying to impress you?" Hermione smiled, and looked up at Ginny. "He asked you out last year, didn't he? So he must like you."

"Oh, like how Malfoy likes you?"

"He'd like to watch me choke, if little else."

Ginny burst into ugly laughter, at something Hermione hadn't meant to imply. She watched as Ginny spun around on her broom, and resisted the urge to scold her. She was talented and knew what she was doing.

That didn't stop the redhead from feigning a fall, just a few feet, to make Hermione panic. She had her wand out in seconds, poised to cast a protective charm on her.

"Oh Merlin's wrinkly bludger," she cackled.

"I hate that, thank you -- "

"I always thought he teased you to annoy Ron, but Ron isn't here. And he's still on your case."

"I think he was always upset I beat him in grades, though we occasionally intersected."

"Oh, is that what you kids are calling it?" Ginny puffed out her cheeks and spoke in a mocking old voice. "Back in my day, we called it -- "

"Go back to your trials!" Hermione fumed.

Ginny had set them the challenge of drills, to see how they worked in a team environment. A pair with bloody noses and punched in eyes suggested they had not gone well. Hermione scratched their names off on Ginny's behalf, as the grief in her deep brown eyes said it all.

Hermione watched as Wood flew around the pitch, in Muggle clothes that ought not be allowed for flying. It seemed dangerous to swoop around in jeans and a t-shirt, though she had seen Harry and Ron do much the same during the summer.

It just seemed more obscene, given this was school, and he was a teacher.

There was a dress code, and an example to be set, and -- 

And he caught her staring, so she resumed her note taking.

She hated Quidditch players. They were too observant. She couldn't even see other people when she was on a broom, let alone stare across the pitch and pick out people from the stands.

The very idea terrified her.

She had brought some History of Magic notes, at least, which Paige had kindly provided to her. She hadn't missed much, just the overview, but they did have to explain the importance of perspective in matters of history. It was refreshing to be critical of the point of view from which they perceived history, given it was easy to lean into the majority perspective.

"Why aren't you out there, hm?"

Against her better judgement, Hermione looked up. Wood had leaned against the Gryffindor banister with his meaty forearms. His hair was slicked to his forehead by sweat and wind, and his smile was warm and broad.

He raised a brow at her, at her silence, and gestured with his head. "You can borrow my broom if y'want."

"Better question," Hermione folded her essay with her index finger and thumb, to mark her place. "Why are _you_ out there?"

Wood beamed wider, unaffected by her tone. "Beg y'pardon?"

"Your chest," she gestured. "The curse." She did her best not to glance down, as his shirt stuck to his skin from the sweat. She looked miserable, like a kitten who'd gotten swatted on the nose.

He pushed away from the banister and she saw him immediately quake. It wasn't so bad when he was in motion, but the longer he tried to stay still, he jerked side to side. It looked like hands were yanking him around, like how Harry had been in his first year.

Hermione started forward, to yank Wood back towards the banister.

And she wished she'd not done that. There was a gap between them still, but she felt him run hot beneath her hand. She steadied him, to ensure he was okay, and he just watched her.

Despite the way he teased her and winked, she doubted he meant any of it. He didn't strike her as the type to be so out of line, to pursue someone who was a student. And he'd done nothing to suggest he thought of her as anything more than the Golden Trio's third wheel.

What little fondness existed was based of their mutual affection for Ron and Harry, like parents who wanted to see their kids do well.

Still, she felt heat run the length of her spine when he tapped her nose with his middle finger, and winked. "It's hours of Quidditch I can't stomach yet. But give me a few months."

Hermione wriggled her nose, at his touch. "Focus on teaching first, and getting _well_." She still had Wood's arm in her hand, as the muscles flexed against her palm. She released him, in time to see Ginny approach.

"Put McRory down as a hard no," Ginny hovered in, concern tossed over her shoulder. The three of them peered down at McRory, who's arm was at an unnatural right angle.

Wood huffed out heavy and deep, as he flew off to handle McRory's broken arm.

"So Malfoy, Wood, McLaggen, Krum, my brother," Ginny raised a finger for each boy, smug as Crookshanks after he'd caught a mouse. "Can you just admit that thick-headed Quidditch boys your type then?"

Hermione frowned. "They're not thick. They're all clever in their own way."

Ginny lit up.

"And I don't like any of them!" Hermione tossed herself back into her notations, to avoid Ginny's mad laughter.

"Ah -- great, McRory's crying -- " Ginny wheezed, as she reached out to accept Hermione's notations.

It went without saying that the trials had to be cut short. Ginny assisted McRory to the Hospital Wing, with Wood to help her. The dejected prefect was howling wildly about how someone had hit him with a bludger's bat.

Others said he'd fallen off his broom like an idiot.

Were Hermione to guess, she'd say that Ginny would have her team pieced together by that evening. It was clear even to Hermione which classmates meshed. She'd guess it would be anyone who hadn't beaten each other up, or wounded themselves in a mock game.

The Gyrffindor Tryouts weren't immensely important to Hermione, but they mattered to Ginny. They had provided Hermione a distraction, as she'd finished the rest of her homework through the week and last night. The Library was slated to reopen at the end of next week, given they'd discovered several bodies in the back corner.

Or so the rumour went.

She decided to risk the Eighth year dorms. She could re-read her History of Magic essay and then head to dinner.

As she walked into the glass-paned dorm, she spotted Neville and Luna.

"Should she -- " Hermione opened and closed her mouth several times, but decided against questioning it. She wasn't a Prefect, and she wasn't about to turn her friend over for visiting.

"Oh, Hermione," Neville beamed. "I was showing Luna the dorm."

"I can see that."

"Well, she came in on her own, so, I figured, if I was helping her to look around..." He looked to Luna, who was staring at the Glimmertree. It was beginning to wilt, as winter approached. The twigs could be ground up in the winter, while the leaves varied in properties throughout the other seasons. It'd have flowers in spring, which could be distilled --

Luna plucked a few leaves, and began to eat them.

"Are you meant to eat those?" Hermione asked Neville, who looked just as confused.

"They're good for seasonal allergies," Luna explained, as she chewed through the leaves. "We have one at my house."

"That makes sense," Hermione looked around the dorm, which was emptier than usual. "How did you get in?"

Luna shrugged. "I think they forgot to add a ward against younger students."

Hogwarts was an old school, and all of the wards and warnings had been crafted long ago. Each dorm had it's own precautions and sigils. Hermione had expected the Eighth year dorms to be the same, but now she felt incredibly exposed.

"And, I don't think I can go into the dorms," Luna pointed vaguely in the direction of the stairs on the far end of the room. "Not that I'd want to."

Neville watched Luna with unmistakable wonder, like someone was blowing glass. There was the confusion about what shapes were being made, and an eventual realization of what she was trying to say.

"I think I'll mention that to McGonagall," Hermione massaged her forehead.

"That's probably a good idea," Luna poked her tongue out, to catch a little bit of a leaf that had escaped past her lips. "I could have been anyone. But I'm just me."

Hermione grumbled as Neville and Luna continued to pace around the dorm, where he'd show her the pages and papers that were fixed to the walls. It was the first time in a long while she saw Luna focus, her wide blue eyes suddenly analytical. She looked no less dreamy, but there was no mistaking her interest.

"I'm going to head to dinner," Hermione called to them, and they nodded. She disappeared down into the dorms, as she'd collect them on her way out if they wanted to join her.

She walked past the miniature lounge which she'd only used to re-write Potions notes Friday night. She had even brought out her essay on werewolves from Third year to cross-reference them, as she'd always thought it was spelled _wolfsbane_, but Selwyn and Snape both wrote it as _wolf's-bane._

She had spent most of Saturday night on a list, which she kept tucked in her pocket. She didn't trust herself with loose pieces of paper, but there was plenty of remove from her mind. There was the stare that Selwyn would give her, and the way he spoke to her about her ring. His attachment to the Malfoys, along with his attitude throughout the first week.

He had warmed up now, but she didn't buy it.

There was something _up_ with Selwyn.

And then she heard the bickering; _always_ the bickering.

"Just admit you want to be me," Pansy tossed her expensive cashmere scarf over her shoulder. She had another beautiful, lace and satin outfit. It was clear she'd been to Hogsmeade, and perhaps even Diagon Alley if the bags were any indication.

"Why would I want to be like you?" Emily mimicked Pansy's voice.

"You copied my hair and my nails -- "

"Oh wow, alternating colours of your house, you're so original!" Emily flicked her fingers through her bob, which in truth, _was_ rather Pansy-ish.

But Hermione would never interject.

"And you won't leave Draco well enough alone." Pansy magicked her clothes from her bags and into her trunk, which must have been expanded to some level. They went in on hangers, destined for places that seemed impossible.

"Draco isn't _yours_," Emily tossed her head, her bob in rapid motion.

Hermione regretted her choice of dorms, but there was no sense in changing now. She'd find issue in the other dorm just as much. Abigail had glared daggers at her over Oliver Wood, as it happened that she liked him, and Hermione just wanted nothing to do with any of that.

"I had him first," Pansy gasped. "In every sense."

"Shut up!" Emily sneered. "I can spend time with him if I want!"

"So sneaking off with him behind the Gilly Gupweed statue on Friday was, oh, not your attempt to copy us? That was our spot."

"As if everything is about you." Emily was on her bed, reading a magazine. Witch Weekly. Of course.

Hermione kept her head down and made a beeline for her own bed. She just needed her essay --

"Hermione was in the dungeons with him. Why aren't you on her case?"

"Granger? Oh please." Pansy snorted. "Not even Draco is that desperate -- no offense."

"We had Potions until late," Hermione ground out.

"Well, that explains it. I haven't shagged every boy I've had a late class with."

"Haven't you?" Emily snipped, her mouth crunched to a messy pout.

"I think it's rather sad that you're letting Draco split you apart," Hermione looked between them. "You're better than that. Or I should hope _you_ are, Emily."

Pansy made a sound of mock offense.

"You've always been petty," Hermione rolled her shoulders back to lift her head higher. "If you want to linger on your ex, fine, but I'm exhausted from hearing you two bicker over him."

Pansy and Emily shot a look at one another and then at Hermione. She refused to stand around and endure their arguments.

Or to linger on the comment of how Emily and Draco had snuck around Friday night.

It wasn't her business.

Pansy made a face, which she lingered in for a long moment. It broke when she looked back to Emily, a heaviness to her posture as if she were about to make a great sacrifice. "I'll accept your imitation as flattery, but please, keep it to a minimum."

Emily flipped her off, still on her stomach with her magazine. The sparks that flew from her fingertips dissipated before anything could catch fire.

"Great," Hermione beamed, her satchel thrown over her shoulder. "You may even find you have more in common than you know!"

"You're so right, _Hermione_ \-- " Pansy shot Emily a long look. "We both think your hair looks awful."

"Hey!" Emily laughed, but tamped down the sound. "I never said that! I said I'm glad my hair doesn't look like that _anymore_ \-- "

"Exactly," Pansy giggled behind her hand, her cruelty redirected.

Hermione rolled her eyes and made a beeline for the door, unsure if she _could_ make a move to the other dorm. She should have kept out of it, because if Emily and Pansy argued, at least she'd have Emily.

Though now she wasn't sure if that was a good thing, if she was being mocked behind her back.

She shoved her hair out of her face, baffled how such a trivial thing could be such a point of focus for others. Her hair was a consequence of life, not some defining _thing_ that encompassed her intelligence, her passion, or anything else about her.

She hated how it was some sort of symbol, of rebellion if she wore it naturally or of conformity if she slicked it down. She ran straight into someone as she reached the bottom of the stairs, which caused her hesitation.

"Heading to dinner?"

Hermione looked up, faced with Draco. He looked curious, not cruel or judgmental. She didn't know what to do with that face.

"You're going to end up with some awful wrinkles if you keep up that frowning..."

"Oh, sod off," Hermione growled, as she tried to side-step him. He caught her upper arm, but let her go just as quick. His gaze passed hers, and a look of recognition caused him to dart his attention elsewhere.

"Why can't you leave things well enough alone, just once."

"What?"

And whatever he had to say remained unsaid, as he let her pass without another word. He set off for the boys' dorms, which forked to the left.

He hadn't tried very hard to see if she was okay. Not unless you counted his cryptic farewell.

Great.

She headed towards the castle alongside Luna and Neville.

"Oh look, it's Sirius." Luna pointed to the sky. Stars had begun to form, and along the horizon she had set her index finger. The constellation hung low in the south, as the sky had begun to dim. "He's early this year."

Hermione ruffled her robes closer, aware of the cold air and the encroaching change of season.

Her gaze faltered as movement broke the eerie chill of the forest, a massive black shape blurred in the night. She stared at the spot for a long moment, unsure if she'd willed the thing into reality or if it had been someone.

Or something.

xxx

Dinner came and went, with little more than a full stomach and warm cheeks to show for it.

Professor Ayers hadn't been at dinner, though she'd not been to dinner all week. Instead she had seen Professor Selwyn, who didn't look away from his meal all evening. He did pull a nasty face whenever he drank...

But this was her, searching for trouble, wasn't it?

Once the students began to filter out, Hermione took to her feet. She approached the teacher's table, as she had done so often in the past. There was a flash of recognition from all the teacher's whom she'd been taught by, who looked to her with open curiosity.

"I needed to speak to Headmistress McGonagall."

Flickwick and Selwyn were amidst conversation, but Hermione ignored them pointedly. She waited for McGonagall to gather herself, as she'd been midway through a goblet of wine.

"Is this -- yes," she cut herself off, as she sharpened up from her wine and food. She stood, and waved for Hermione to follow her. They proceed to her office in familiar silence, which suited Hermione just fine.

Once they arrived, McGonagall did the unthinkable; she _yawned_. It was such a humanizing sight, one Hermione had never expected to see of her. She brushed off her surprise and smiled, as if she'd forgotten the severity of this meeting.

"Is this about Mr. Malfoy?" She cut straight to it, no question of how Hermione had gotten on with classes.

"No, not strictly."

McGonagall relaxed, somewhat, as if she'd been braced for the worst news possible. "Ah, is it about a personal matter, then?"

"No, still Order business." Hermione dug out her parchments from her pocket, the list she'd made the previous night, along with the essay she'd written in Third year for Snape's DADA class as well as the instuctions Selwyn had written for the Wolfsbane Potion.

"Ms. Granger -- "

"I have reason to believe that Professor Selwyn isn't who he says he is." She didn't wait for McGonagall, her face bright with determination. "I suspected something was amiss when I first saw him; he was used _Legilimens_, though I can't understand what he'd hoped to have gained. I had to do some reading on the matter, but I cross-referenced my experiences with those of people who'd experienced the same. He's good at it, but the signs are still there. Furthermore, he's exerted the same several times since this initial incident, which is incredibly illegal."

McGonagall cocked her brow, thin lips pursed down to a familiar thin line. "Is that so?"

"Now, that in itself is of concern; some stranger out to pick thoughts from my brain, that's just gross on it's own." She pushed her hair behind her shoulder, her head held high. "There's more, as you can imagine. I'm not here to lodge a complaint about him being a _creep_ \-- it's actually thanks to the Minister of Magic, Kingsley that is. I was given an insight into Selwyn during the war and after the fact." She pointed at her rapid-fire list, which outlined the events that led to his incarceration and subsequent escape from the Malfoy manor. There was another dot point, where the Shrieking Shack was mentioned.

"And some point between these two events, I believe Selwyn was replaced by someone _else_; Ayers was engaged to him, but she broke it off. He suddenly had ties to the Malfoy family, who up until that point had tortured him or ignored his existence. He was proficient enough to be hired as a Potions master, in spite of the fact he didn't even _study_ Potions to N.E.W.T. level -- I checked. And isn't it a happy coincidence that in the midst of the war, Draco managed to save Selwyn, to redeem himself further? Isn't it a coincidence that there was a good deed to exonerate Draco?"

McGonagall flexed her brow, as if to encourage the girl to continue.

"Now, that's beside the point." She dug through her notes, and pulled out a scrappy piece of parchment that was far too small for her thoughts. "Selwyn has no concept of what's happening in his place, I don't think... Similar to Professor Moody in Fifth year, that is, when Crouch kept him locked up. Which suggests that whoever has done this either took inspiration, or had an inside knowledge of how such an act was performed. They've also avoided whatever tells had caught Barty out, as they were likely there in the aftermath of this -- they'd know how to trick their way back into the school."

McGonagall remained stoic, and allowed Hermione her chance to unwind her thoughts.

"Professor Ayers even said to Selwyn that she wanted to see _him -- _who else could she mean, if not the _real_ Selwyn? Why else would she call off the engagement if she loved him! Because it's not _him_!" Hermione smoothed her hands through her hair, livid. "Who went missing after the war, and who's body was never recovered? Who, exactly, was a skilled enough potioneer to consistently brew Polyjuice Potion? Who's in a position to maintain this, and _who_ would have a reason to want to return to the school, to undo all the terrible things they had done?" Hermione yanked her essay to the top of the pile, and poked the parchment with her chewed back nail.

"It's all theories and hearsay, of course, and I didn't want to come to you without proof, unless I was absolutely sure." Hermione fidgeted with her hands. She withdrew two parchments, the instructions from her lesson on Friday and an essay Snape had assigned in their Third year on werewolves. "But when I saw that he wrote _wolfsbane as wolf's-bane_, it reminded me of something -- with the same style of hyphen and apostrophe, it clicked together."

"Are you quite done, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione regained her breath, wide-eyed and wondering at the Headmistress.

"Do you think I'm unaware, that Snape has taken on Selwyn's place?"

Hermione felt like glass shattered in her head, between her ears. Rather than feel accomplished, she felt stupid. She turned bright red, her mouth too wide as she tried to find her voice.

"Severus and I had a full year to plan what would come, in the wake of the war. We planned for the better outcome, which thankfully came true."

"You were working with Snape?" Hermione couldn't figure out how to feel about that, as if she should be angry, but she couldn't be. He had acted to save Harry, hadn't he?

But with a hollow death and deception, Hermione wasn't sure what he was anymore.

"As I told you last week, Ms. Granger, Dumbledore was wrong about far more than we realized." She grit her teeth, her hands folded in front of her. "And while I sincerely appreciate both your technical skill in deduction and your passion for the truth, I ask that you keep this to yourself."

"Why?" Hermione balked, her hands thrown into the air.

"What would you want for him, Hermione?" McGonagall asked, her voice crisp. "Everything he did, he did because of Dumbledore, and for Lily Potter."

Hermione weighed her opinion. On the one hand, he had enabled the torture of students and staff alike. His actions had seen countless people to their deaths, including Dumbledore himself. He had been cruel and calloused, but he had always worked towards the downfall of Voldemort.

"Selwyn is alive, you're correct; but he was kissed by a Dementor, though the kiss was cut short. He's half the man he once was," McGonagall paused, as she shook her head. "Our hope is that Severus can use this year to repair the damages to not only the school, but to Selwyn. Then he intends to disappear."

Hermione stared at the floor in front of her, confused.

"I've never much been a fan of Severus, I won't lie." McGonagall palmed the heavy wooden desk that she had inherited from Dumbledore. "But he knows more about the Death Eaters than any of us within the Order. He's been instrumental to restoring the school, and he agreed to take on Potions where we had a dire lack. The school is barely functioning, Hermione -- you can see that, can't you?"

"He's the one that told you about Voldemort, isn't he." Hermione looked back to McGonagall. "About the extra Horcrux."

McGonagall's throat bobbed, silently.

"So it's not just a fear; it's real?"

"There's more than just the Horcrux," McGonagall folded her hands in front of her. She looked at the Pensieve, the one locked in a cabinet. "All I ask is that you trust the Order, Ms. Granger."

"Who else knows that Selwyn isn't who he says he is?"

"Ayers, ah... Mr. Malfoy, I would imagine. The Order at large is aware that Snape survived... He feigned death, and slipped away with several of the werewolf victims into the Forbidden Forest. The Shrieking Shack, rather." She dipped her head, lower, to disguise a frown. "Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter were informed the week before school resumed. I had thought they'd have mentioned it to you."

"They didn't."

McGonagall smiled in spite of herself. "I assumed it'd remain unnoticed, but I underestimated you, Ms. Granger."

"If Dumbledore was wrong about so many things, then how can you think to trust Snape?"

McGonagall didn't react, her gaze affixed to the Pensieve. She remained silent for a long minute, her lips pursed and her gaze unfocused. "I believe it'd be best for you to go to sleep, Ms. Granger. I do appreciate your effort, however."

"Sirius is alive too, isn't he."

McGonagall started at this, her throat dry. "What makes you think -- "

"Forget it!" Hermione scoffed, low and loud, her respect for McGonagall evaporated. "What's the point of being in the Order if all you do is _lie_ to me?"

And she left, her chest tight and her eyes blurred from tears. She had always wanted to help the Order, to assist them with her insights and her knowledge. But they failed to inform her of basic information, and in turn, she was left to piece together things that she could have simply been _told_.

Hermione rushed to the Library, rather than the dorms. She didn't want to deal with Pansy or Emily, and she didn't want Ayers to burst in over some books, or Luna with a mouthful of Glimmertree leaves. She wanted to be alone, fully alone, in a place she felt safe in.

She burst through the curtains and ignored the warning signs. She just needed, a book, any book -- 

A silver thread broke out of the sapphire in her ring, and the metal vibrated against her chest. A single strand of silver flecked shot into the dark, around a corner. An ethereal glitter of blue fae light danced around it. It eased as she shifted her weight, to correct her path.

She followed the thread, anxious and unsure. It led her through the stacks and over several others, until it angled downward. The pulse of silver was trained on a satchel, and didn't fade as she approached. Instead, she saw a crumpled mess on the floor, with a bloody nose and bruised face.

And silver hair and cracked blue eyes, lit by the silver thread and blue lights.

_Draco_.


	16. silver string of knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _**September 13th, 1998. Thread the needle, tread the line.** _

Draco was still. He was breathing, she could tell, but hadn't shifted in response to the sight of her, or in reaction to the string that shot out of his bag.

Hermione stared, her breath caught in her throat as she waited for something, _anything_.

All she received was a toss of his head, as he shook his overgrown hair from his eyes. He squared his jaw and flexed a brow, as if to dare her to speak first. From how bright his eyes were in the dark, Hermione had peace of mind.

The silver strand hung like gossamer webs, flared out from the leather of his bag. She wanted to reach out, to see what the ring had led her to. But that was definitely an invasion of privacy, which was _his_ thing.

He hadn't said anything, just glared daggers up at her as she closed the gap.

"What happened?"

"I tripped." He bit back, a hiss let out between his teeth.

At a glance, it seemed like a scrape with another student. In the past, no one would have dared mess with Draco, given his family's posture and wealth. Such a reputation was torn to pieces now, and he had nothing of such elevation to keep himself safe. He was just another child of a Death Eater, and if they were clever, they'd know it ran deeper than that.

A thick drop of blood ran the length of his upper lip, into the corner of his mouth. He smeared it away, as he must have done countless times before. His face was pinkish, splotched, and his eyes were bruised.

She dropped to her knees in front of him. She drew out her wand, and he flinched away. She deserved that, for the last time she'd turned her wand on him.

But that was give and take; he deserved the ink to his face.

Several lights floated out of the tip of her wand, to hover above them like a miniature version of the Great Hall. They were faint and temporary but that was in their best interest.

"Who did this." Hermione twirled her wand and the blood turned to dust, then to sparks. It dissipated, which left Draco cleaner yet still wounded.

"Does it matter?"

"We can report them." She kept her hands to herself, unwilling to close the gap between them. She didn't know what had been done, or if there were worse injuries than his skewed nose.

Draco shook his head, as he checked his fingers for blood. He gave his nose a final rub, which made him wince.

"Shall I -- "

"_Episkey_."

Hermione heard his nose crack back into place. Blood shot out from his nostrils, mixed with phlegm. He had the audacity to smirk, hit teeth grit as he let out a laugh. It more sadistic, as he enjoyed her wide-eyed shock. He had waited for her to get close to do it, the bastard, and now she had to wonder if this was all just another surreal attempt to screw with her head.

He maintained eye contact through the dark, which she forgot was a terrible idea. He let his head fall back against the wall, his Adam's apple strained against the pallor of his throat. She tried not to stare, as it bobbed with his breath.

The spell was simple, and he'd done it wandlessly.

Had he done it before?

"You have no idea."

"Excuse me?"

Draco dropped his gaze, back to hers, steel against bronze. She had no chance, not even for a second. She looked away, wary of what he'd learn from even a surface glance. While he'd stumbled on Monday, anyone with the ability to exert _Legilimens_ could pick through surface thoughts with ease.

"How often I had to use that spell, last year." He looked so unlike himself, slumped on the floor of Library as he basked in the adrenaline of bones and blood. Any superiority had been sliced out of him Sixth year, when Harry had nearly killed him. It had never grown back. She'd wager he continued to slowly die, burdened with his father's failure. That had been what secured him his role as a Death Eater, hadn't it?

It was too coincidental, that Lucius was put behind bars and Draco was marked with the ink that would damn him forever.

He tapped his index finger against his signet ring, the emeralds glinting in the light provided by the silver thread and her faint light magicks. But the thread was beautiful, in line with a Patronus, but spawned from something different. It pointed at his bag. He didn't seem to care about it.

"It's a useful spell." Hermione smiled, as if to lighten the mood.

"You wouldn't have survived last year, if you'd come back." Draco tipped his head, as shadows licked around his features. 

"What?" Hermione snapped. "I'm able to defend myself just fine, thank you."

Draco stared at her, as deeply as he had on Monday, except worse. There was no blur of memories or Legilimens to break the focus. He was drinking her in like he'd never see her again. It forced her to acknowledge the pinkish tint to his ears and cheeks, which could be blood, or something else.

It matched the blush that unfurled along her spine, to the back of her neck, and across her chest. She felt too warm in this corner of the stacks, stuck between Magical Law and Magical Marriage.

Alphabetization was a bitch.

Hermione couldn't skim the shelves in the dark. Not while he sat in silence, staring her down, daring her to look at him. In spite of her better judgment, she stared back, her gaze bouncing between his bloodied shirt beneath his robes, to the cracked blood that sat around the edge of his mouth. And she landed on his eyes, frightened and determined all in one.

"They would have used your instincts against you," he tongued his lips apart. Blood sat between the cracks of his teeth, in a way that reminded her how much of the skull was bone. "Your need to protect others; they'd have tortured First years in front of you, until you cracked, and lashed out, and you'd be dead. Self-defense. It would've been easy for them, and they'd have done it, gleefully."

"I wouldn't have -- "

"We both know you would have. Day after day, children screaming -- " He cracked his head back, against the wall, so hard she worried for his skull.

Hermione remained quiet, unsure if he had concussed himself. He was telling her more than she ever expected, or wanted to know, but at least he had the strength to be honest.

Imagine, a Slytherin, the most honest person in her life.

"You have no idea." He jigged his leg, his teeth bared in a manic half-smile, more anger than joy.

"They told you this?"

Draco nodded, no pause or thought. "You can't _lie,_ or control your emotions, and they'd have used that against you." He pushed his hand through his hair and yanked at where it knotted. His ring had gotten caught, but he continued to fuss, and she saw herself mirrored in him.

Hermione glared, but recognized his point. She was passionate and did her best to help others. He raised valid points. And, in his anxiety, he'd worked himself up. She reached out, to catch his wrist and still his fingers. It took no time to loosen the hair, to pat it back down into place and to allow him space to breathe. He was worked up, on the adrenaline, and no doubt being back here put him there again.

Hermione couldn't empathize fully, as she'd not been here, day after day, subjected to Crucio or worse, expected to harm others or be harmed in return.

Worse yet, the exposure to the Dark Lord.

Hermione, Ron and Harry had spent months crowded around a mere sliver of the man, and fallen to pieces. They fought, and became cruel and jealous. All their worst traits were exemplified, and they had almost failed because of it.

She watched as he breathed, deeper than he had before, and wiped at his face. Blood and snot mixed, along with tears, and she felt awful.

"You're very brave, you know." Hermione breathed out through her nose, her hands bunched in her lap.

Draco didn't speak, as he stared glassy-eyed at the floor in front of him. He had managed to gather himself, given his breathing had slowed and he wasn't in tears. She didn't care if he cried.

He had seen her go through far worse, where she'd been tortured beyond reason, beyond anything she could completely remember. She could remember it, but -- Monday flooded her, where he asked her why she kept that so close to the surface.

She massaged her forearm, as the agitated flesh burned anew. The knife had been cursed, and with enough pressure, it felt like an open wpund again again.

She shook her hand free, her fingers angled in strange ways as she tried to distract herself.

"Hey -- what's in your bag?"

Draco tipped the thing upside-down, parchment, quills and a book tumbled out. He cast a sidelong glance over the mess, at nothing specific.

But Hermione could see the silver thread find it's mark; the book on mating rituals.

The silver thread remained magnetized to the cover. Where the thread met the leather, it sprawled like a web. It wrapped around the book in full, anchored by an embroidered raven on the front. The silver wove intricate feathers and talons, while the raven itself seemed to blink out at her.

When she picked it up, it vanished.

The thread faded, which left them in the dying light magicks. They were only meant to act as temporary things, for a trip to the bathroom at night or to check under a desk.

"I know about Selwyn, by the way." Hermione said, into the dark. It was easier to admit now that the thread had vanished. "That he's not _himself_."

"Oh?"

"I had to think on it, but..." Hermione nodded, her fingers worked over the leather cover. "Is that why you told me not to look into your family?"

Draco pushed himself to his feet. He offered his hand to her through the shadows, and he wasn't as cold as she remembered. He was warm, as Wood had been, and softer than she expected. Once she was on her feet, his drew it away to examine the blood beneath his nails. He rubbed his face with the sleeve of his robes, which did little for the dried flecks.

She doubted he cared much. So strange, given how pristine he'd always look in the past. Even if he looked like an oiled rat until Forth year.

"Could you see the silver thread?"

"What?" Draco squinted around, as if he had something on him.

"Nevermind." She clutched the book in one hand while the ring was in her other hand. She twisted it in her palm as they walked towards the exit of the Library. She seemed to work out one problem and be reminded of another. The metal remained cool beneath her hand, and she willed a message through it.

_"Be safe."_

Draco fidgeted with his ring, which had likely gotten blood on it. He pulled it away, to inspect the etchings. A deft scoff followed, which was echoed by a thunderous boom.

"Malodorous Malfoy and Grungy Granger are in the Library! After hours, after curfew, ooh, ooh, ooh!" A voice shrieked, mirth baked into every syllable. "Granger and Malfoy, Granger and Malfoy!"

"Oh no."

"Ooh yes, ickle Eighth years working on making some new First years! House unity at it's finest!"

Her gold watch showed it was past eleven, and she had to wonder if Eighth years were under a curfew.

Draco exhaled, his head rolled as he cracked his neck. "I will ask the Bloody Baron to decorate the Slytherin common room with your entrails should you persist."

"Now, now, Mr. Malfoy, let's not be so hasty!" Peeves stumbled over his words, and Hermione was outright impressed. She watched as Draco stared Peeves down. "The Baron and I worked things out, see, he's not gonna tear into me 'cause you say so -- "

"Where do you think Professor Binns vanished off to, hm?" Draco flashed a devil-may-care grin, which was made rougher by the squint to his right eye. "I was sick of the old sod and now he's gone."

"Oh, do you hear that, I'm needed by the Grey Lady! She's crying over a missing ring!" Peeves vanished, so fast that she could hear the wind form behind him. She couldn't vocalize how impressed she was, but Draco lofted a smirk as if he needn't be told.

"He used to annoy the shit out of me, First year." Draco snuffed out at the memory as if to catch himself before he said too much. "My father taught me to stand up to him; he has no backbone."

"He's a poltergeist, I doubt he has much of anything."

They laughed, and Hermione was sure that had been the first time they'd laughed together, not at one another. She felt her blood pump hotter, embarrassed that she cared about such a thing.

They walked in mutual silence towards the Great Hall, and by extension, the grounds. It was late, after all, and neither of them was sure of the rules that were placed on Eighth years.

He suited the looser locks and unpolished demeanor. There was some unlikely appeal in how ruffled he looked, with the blood that remained caked around his nostrils and in his stubble.

"I can't believe you have a gold watch and a silver ring."

Hermione raised a brow, as she looked up at him. She wished she hadn't. Somewhere between Monday and now he'd returned to the _handsome_ sliver, and she felt like an idiot for the thought. "I'm not wearing the ring..."

Draco didn't clarify further. It was an old-fashion notion, to care about matching metals in your accessories. Hermione couldn't give a shit, in all honesty. The necklace and ring were usually tucked beneath her robes, and her watch was a practical thing. She'd bought it from a department store for her thirteenth birthday. She jiggled it, to disguise the engraved cartoon characters on the links of the band. She worried it between her index finger and thumb, anxious as she crossed the grounds with Draco, unsure if they were friends or even acquaintances.

He had championed for her death at least once, back in Second year.

As they reached the greenhouse dorms, Draco jogged a few steps ahead to open the door. She had thought he was about to rush inside, to lock her out, but he instead opened the door to allow her in first. He stood, stoic, and waited for her to walk in. But she stood, straight and stiff, a frown on her face.

He looked at the door, and then at her, confused.

"Why are you trying so hard, to be nice to me?"

Even in the dark, she didn't miss how he blinked in surprise and tensed his jaw. "It's manners, Granger."

"It's more than manners," she clicked her tongue against her teeth. Rather than wait for an answer, she went to go through the door. But his arm dropped, to block her way. She tried to duck beneath it, but he moved it each time to block her.

"What do you think it is?"

Oh, she didn't like this. She wanted to abort her mission, to go back to the laughter over Peeves missing a body, which was cruel in hindsight. She blinked up at him, terrified as she didn't have an answer for him. Not anything that she was willing to say to his face, while he looked down at her with the moon above.

It was in the final stages of its cycle; third quarter, or waning. It was a good time for Potions to be bottled, for ingredients to be harvested, and for forgiveness and resolution. The relative facts of the third quarter moon bounced through her mind, against her wishes.

She'd always believed Divination was bogus until it cloaked this quiet moment. Malfoy remained, his arm barred across the door, his brow raised as he waited for her answer.

And for once, she didn't have an answer.

His grip relaxed on the frame of the door, as ice blue flashed liquid. He smiled and puffed through pursed lips.

Draco retreated, across the dorm, down the steps. She didn't stop him, frozen in her inadequacy. She couldn't speak for him, or speak for his changes. Only he knew what had happened, to change his perspective. If he deigned necessary to be chivalrous towards her, it was on him to account for the _why_.

The ring heated against her chest, and she saw white-hot letters form in the band. She'd told Ron to be safe...

_"You first."_

* * *

> _ **September 14th, 1998. A history of such behavior.** _

Whatever had happened in the Library seemed to remain there, as Hermione spent Ancient Runes with the same removed, dejected boy from the week prior. They stood outside of the classroom, distant from their fellow Eighth years, but not aggressive in this space. They had giggles and stories and so much socializing, while Hermione stood ramrod straight next to a pristine Draco.

He had hidden the bruises and looked so unlike the boy she had seen on the floor in the Library.

They spoke twice during Ancient Runes; once to ask for something to be moved, and once because he elbowed her by mistake while stretching.

She assumed it was a mistake.

Hermione decided it was better this way, to leave that alone and to resume the momentum of classes. She had missed History of Magic the previous week, and that had been an annoyance all the way through her previous week. She wrote her essay to the best of her ability. If she got something wrong, well, that was -- she was fine with that.

Honestly, she was.

"Welcome all!" Ayers sang as she passed them, with a lightness to her step that Hermione forgot she possessed. The last time she'd seen Professor Ayers had been when she'd burst into the Potions classroom, and then the subsequent intrusion of her privacy.

The class was so much livelier than Hermione expected. It was a genuine shock when she saw people with their quills and parchment out, as Professor Ayers threw her hair up into a bun. Hermione realized this was a sign she was about to use magic, as she wiggled her fingers.

A series of pamphlets flew out to each of them, and Hermione recognized them on sight.

"I've brought in some examples of propaganda." She smiled, though there was a sadness to it. "Please don't linger on it in too great of detail; these are examples from Muggle wars, as much as magical."

Hermione looked at the pamphlets, which were a mixture of anti-werewolf, anti-goblin, along with minorities within Muggle cultures. Not that the magical world was exempt from racial or gendered biases, or that they had a complete understanding of the spectrum of sexuality. Each world had its flaws, and it took Hermione by surprise that this was what History of Magic was angled towards.

She could see Draco, several seats away, as he glared daggers at a green piece of paper with silver font that glittered beautifully.

Hermione flipped to it; blood purity.

"Now, not every class will be so -- heavy, I suppose, but um, as with your essays, that I assigned, I just want to remind you all that... That these events, these wars, they start as ideas. I'm not here to make claims, about the right way to think, but I just -- I just need you all to see, that even the most beautiful words or seemingly logical arguments can be the easiest way to start on a darker path. For example, with the first goblin war... How did it start?"

"The wizards initiated an attack on a goblin colony -- " Hermione stuck her hand up, to be safe, and readied herself to compensate for her absence. "The casualties that followed encouraged a response, and in turn, each side worsened their methods. The death toll grew, on both sides, but the wizards were decidedly at an advantage after the fact. I can specify dates if -- "

"Ah, no need. While technically correct," Ayers pointed to her, a little finger fun, her lips pouted. "That's what literal actions were taken to initiate conflict. Where do actions start?"

"As ideas."

"Exactly Mr. Malfoy," Ayers smiled, her features all scrunched up. She relaxed them, as she slipped back to reality, and back to the serious topic at hand. "Our attitudes and our outlook inform our actions. The wizards didn't simply _attack_ the goblins, as if that was the first step. They bred contempt, they spread misinformation and the bolstered their ranks with false ideals and unrealistic promises. This, again, isn't a nuanced or all-encompassing look at the nature of war, and that isn't the focus of our class but -- as someone who watched the Ministry bleed out over many years, I want you all to remember that it's good to be cautious and critical. But more than that, it's good to be empathetic, and to understand _why_ things happen, not simply what has happened."

The culture shock ebbed, as Hermione _agreed_ with Professor Ayers. It was more floaty and loose than Professor Binns, who had recited dates and facts for them. And while Ayers provided these things, she also brought to light the climate of the events. She explained the way people were treated, and external factors.

Hermione had been worried about this class, in truth. She hadn't thought much of Ayers, who babbled too much and spoke with her hands, but she recognized her point.

She watched Draco, in part, as he tore the pamphlet on blood purity apart through the lesson, piece by piece. By the end of the lesson, he'd torn it to shreds. It sat like a little pile of confetti that he set alight before he left. Emily giggled from beside him, as she slipped her hand into his.

And he let her.

And Hermione didn't know how to feel, all over again.

She collected her things, and handed in her essay, and she lingered. She let Draco and Emily leave, well ahead of her, and she lingered to speak with Professor Ayers.

"Hermione, hello, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to discredit you, you're incredibly switched on, and you probably know more than me, honestly, but -- "

"Actually, Professor, I wanted to apologize." She hoisted her bag up to her shoulder. Rather than look at Professor Ayers, she looked at the desk with the little cat and dog angled towards one another. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"Oh." The fire went out, like a light switch, and Ayers frowned. "Yes, well, it's been a tense situation for everyone."

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry, for whatever you're going through. I don't know exactly what that is, but you did a lot for Muggleborns, and I'm sure they'd thank you for that."

"That's nice of you to say." Ayers smiled, her round wire glasses perked up from the plumpness of her cheeks. "Did you end up reading that book I gave you?"

"Oh not yet, I've been busy." Hermione had forgotten about the book, in all honesty.

"That's understandable." Ayers laughed, her hand hovered in front of her crooked teeth. "It's just something that gave me a lot of perspectives, on the light that exists within magic. We have a whole class dedicated to the Defense Against the Dark Arts, you know, but no time for the light." She nodded once, and pointed to the door. "I think someone's waiting for you."

Draco hovered by the door, a few paces away. Enough to allow space, so as to not eavesdrop, but he lingered on them with clear anticipation. Hermione felt a blush crawl up her neck.

"He's nothing like his father." Ayers shook her head, a chill ran through her. "Hate that guy. Always at the Ministry, trying to suck up to whichever old man had landed his wrinkly ass into the Minister's seat."

Hermione shot Ayers a look, as if to ask if she were allowed to say that.

"Ah -- light, goodness, all that," Ayers realized too late she'd spoken out loud, and pivoted away. She shuffled the same two books around, again and again, and refused to look back to Hermione.

"Granger, hurry up."

"Yeah Hermione, hurry up!" Emily echoed, as she popped into the frame.

Brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy accident; I have a moon chart for the story, and their encounter actually did happen on the third quarter moon, which is all about letting go of grudges and moving on from things and resolving tension, so that's pretty neat.


	17. critical thinking.

> _**September 14th, 1998. Part of the party, part of the crowd.** _

Despite Hermione's protests, she found herself seated squarely in the middle of the Great Hall. Her back faced towards the Ravenclaw table, and she could see the Gryffindor table -- but she was _at_ the Hufflepuff table, at Emily's request.

Or, insistence. It was much the same.

"So!" Emily slammed her hands onto the Hufflepuff table, which rattled the silverware. Hermione jumped as they clattered, while Draco sat unfazed. It was much like Cibus Cafe all over again, except worse.

"Ehm, so..?" Hermione worried her index finger and thumb together in a circle, the pattern putting her anxiety at ease.

"I heard from a pretty little birdie that it's your birthday Saturday." Emily sat, a large sigh parted from serenely spread lips. "Paige told me."

Hermione squinted across at the Ravenclaw table, at Paige. The bespectacled girl smiled and waved, and she felt bad for being angry.

"So, I say we have a party."

"For my birthday?"

"For you, for Paige, for the fun of it." Emily snatched up a treacle tart, ignoring the savory foods that laid in front of her.

"Where exactly would this party take place?"

"Oh, that's easy." She took a hefty bite of her tart, as crumbs fell onto the table in front of her. "Hogsmeade."

Hermione choked on some lettuce, which she unceremoniously spat into her hand. She ignored how Draco broke into ugly laughter and stared at Emily. It took Hermione a long moment to catch her breath, as she wheezed through the greens she'd foolishly taken a bite of. 

"Whatever for?" Hermione said, her hand at her throat.

"Because we can," Emily folded her hands in front of her. "We're allowed to come and go as we please, and I think it's a little sad you've not even gone once yet. I've gone three times this week."

"It's _Monday._"

"My point exactly!"

Emily had reached across to hover her finger in front of her mouth before Hermione could question how that was possible.

"I know, you don't need a party, bully for you my love, but unlike you other _awful_ houses, we Hufflepuffs care about one another, and we insist on birthday parties." She tapped Hermione's nose as she leaned back, a prim smile spread across peach-lacquered lips. "We're the best at parties!"

"And the worst at Quidditch."

"Hey!" Emily punched Draco in the shoulder, after a delay of processing his insult. The punch wasn't so hard as to hurt him, and he seemed to anticipate it. "See if I bother with your birthday, Snake."

Draco rolled his eyes, and Hermione got lose in the sight of him just... Existing. Like this was something they could have had years ago, rather than targeted cruelty.

"I know you're friends with Ginny, so she'll be attending." Emily waved her hand towards the Gryffindor table, where Ginny had her newly minted Quidditch team gathered around. They were in school robes, but they cut clear silhouettes. She had Wood with them, too, as he'd taken a seat on the table beside some croissants.

"Should we invite Wood? Is that weird?" Emily mumbled under her breath, as she worked through the logistics. "I'll let him know, given we have to tell a teacher, and I doubt he'd tell on students who ought not to be out. Maybe he could even chaparone, I'm sure that'd make the Heads happy."

Hermione allowed Emily to parade her ideas. She had always thought Hufflepuffs to be sweet and quiet, but she had learned that the houses meant little. She looked to Draco, who'd politely paid attention as Emily constructed a list of guests.

"I'll invite Pansy but I'll tell her the wrong place -- " Emily cackled, and wrote a note for herself. "Is that too mean?"

"I feel as though she'll notice we're all going in one direction." Draco looked to Hermione, caught in a genuine smile. He realized it too late, cautious in his eye contact like he wasn't sure he was allowed to look at her.

Then he was snatched up from behind by Blaise and Theo, who had their brooms.

"Emergency Malfoy!"

Hermione felt her blood turn to ice, sharp and too quick. Her fear was mirrored in the anxious look that warped Draco's face.

"We need a fourth for Quidditch -- just chasers or keeper, take your pick. We've got half an hour before Charms, but we won't need much time to show those Ravenclaw swots what's what -- "

They vanished out of the hall, without much fanfare. Draco had found his footing as they exited at least.

Hermione watched the door, as if she expected him to come back. Emily continued to notate her parchment with invitees, her treacle tart tins mounted in a tiny scrunched pile.

"I thought you said you weren't going to mess around with Draco," Emily hummed, as she crossed a few names off and added a few in their place. She hadn't looked up from the parchment, as she scribbled out a name, and readded it.

"I'm not messing around with him," Hermione replied, flat and honest. "He's not my type."

"Oh don't lie," Emily heaved a sigh, her hand beneath her chin. She fidgeted with her quill, as she parted the feathers and realigned them. "Neither of you came back after dinner last night 'til late."

"Were you waiting for him?"

"For the both of you," Emily maintained her gaze, as Hermione looked anywhere except her. "I do like you Hermione, I can be a little -- I'm sorry, I guess, it's not your fault, if you do like him. He does that to girls."

"I don't like him." Hermione repeated, again, as if she'd have to get it tattooed for Emily to believe her.

"Okay, I'm just saying, he's kissed half the girls we have in our Eighth year, so I guess, be careful." She pursed her lips as she reviewed the names. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's out to complete the set for a laugh."

"He's your friend. I doubt you'd be his friend if he was out to hurt me, or anyone."

Emily smiled at Hermione, in a sad, knowing way. It was the worst sort of smile. It smacked of pity and of knowledge Hermione hadn't yet learned. The temptation to throw Emily's words in her face rose in Hermione, as she'd watched Emily swear off Draco, and go off at Bethany for a peck in Fifth year.

But she learned to bite her tongue and ignore the politics, to maintain her peace of mind.

* * *

> _ **September 15th, 1998. Take the time to transform yourself and you'll see more than you thought you could.** _

The first week of classes had been focused on notes more than practical skills, save for Potions. Hermione had been so terrified and invested in the outlines that she couldn't remember much.

But with Double Transfiguration on Tuesday morning, that passive observation was kicked back into focus and critical thinking. It made it easier to ignore the weekend, which was her nineteenth birthday, and arguably her first proper birthday party since she was a child.

And that caused her anxiety beyond reason.

She had sent out a batch of hand-drawn invitations, with each person's invite personalized with their favorite animal and color. 

No one had turned up.

Hermione's hand clenched and unclenched on the table in front of her, her wand poised beneath her palm. It was time to practice wandless magic, which she'd mastered in small ways.

But now she was personally responsible for the little white mouse in front of her, who she had to transform into a matchbox. It stared up at her with wide, bright eyes, as if unaware it was about to die. Transfiguration was so morbid, when you thought about it. She assumed each object lost consciousness at a certain point, right?

She looked at the half-formed box with legs that skittered across the desk in front of Neville and grimaced.

"You'll get it," Hermione reassured him. Her mouse formed into a matchbox and back, with a different design each time she did so. The mouse remained white and bright, but the box would take on different decorations. She'd change the font on it, and the ornate decals. She'd change the patterns of the sides, and when the mouse reformed its whiskers would be curled in different ways.

"Why so grim, Granger?"

Malfoy was in the row in front of her, where he'd pivoted from to look at her.

"It's a little morbid, isn't it." Hermione let her mouse remain as a mouse, and waited for McGonagall to approach. She had picked a design she liked, and she'd show her when necessary.

"Stupid mouse," Pansy was next to him, with her matchbox scrunched in her hand. She shook it, and it turned to a mouse, and back. It made her stomach flip, as she watched Pansy with cautious attention.

"It's not the mouse's fault." Hermione frowned.

"It! Won't! Stay!" Pansy shrieked, as she slammed the box down.

Hermione jumped, terror in her eyes as she watched the mouse reform. It phased between a mouse and a box, and seemed to be in pain. Pansy didn't seem adept enough at wandless magic for this to be any sort of productive, as she'd reduced herself to emotional casting. 

Draco followed her line of sight, and turned to catch Pansy's wrist so she'd stop slamming it. He took the little crumpled box from her hand, and repaired it.

When the mouse reformed, dazed but otherwise unharmed.

"Wandless magic is such poor peoples' magic," Pansy sniffed, her teeth bared. "See! Of course Weasley can do it."

Ginny was in the row ahead of them and she was smiling. Her mouse ran across the desk, gleefully, as it turned into a box and back. She poked it with her index finger, and petted it gently.

"You're just upset you can't do it." Hermione raised a brow, as her mouse snoozed in front of her. It didn't mind being transformed, and she'd conjured a little stack of hay to make a bed in. McGonagall was beside Neville, as she tried to demonstrate the proper focusing technique. It was all in your eyes and intentions.

"I can do it -- Draco, give it back to me."

"So you can torture it?" Draco laughed, but caught himself when Hermione frowned.

"I would never!" Pansy shrieked, trying to grab the mouse back. She had gone red in the cheeks, and Hermione worried she might cry.

"Do you need help?"

Pansy stared at her, her jaw bobbing as she fought against familiar slurs. "Thanks, but I don't need help from _you_."

"There's no harm in accepting help, Ms. Parkinson," McGonagall said, as she looked between the three of them. Draco had turned on the bench, to rest his elbows on Hermione's desk. His mouse was brown, with bulging eyes and a permanent smile. He willed the mouse into a matchbox, covered in ornate gold curls.

Draco cocked a brow at McGonagall, as if to ask if she needed further proof.

"Have Mr. Malfoy or Ms. Granger assist you," McGonagall exhaled, though she shot a rare smile at Hermione as she turned to walk away. She paused to allow Hermione a chance to demonstrate, though it came as no surprise she succeeded. Hermione couldn't help but feel a little annoyed that it was presumed she'd be good at it.

It allowed her no chance to impress McGonagall. Hermione had been surprised she remained as a teacher, but given how they'd accepted _Snape_ back onto the staff, it suggested that it wasn't so easy to hire teachers. That, plus Hogwarts awful reputation at large. Several teachers had died because of the school, so it made sense.

Double Transfiguration became Double Charms, and the day ended with a period of Double Defense Against the Dark Arts.

The previous week of classes hadn't run as their teacher, Professor Proudfoot, had been in the Auror's department. They had to round out their work with the Ministry before they came across, and in truth, Hermione was curious.

They were someone Tonks had mentioned in passing, but they were an unknown entity to Hermione.

As they waited outside of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, discussions formed around what they might be like.

"I hope they're like Lockhart," one girl from Slytherin giggled.

"Oh, Merlin no," Ginny gagged.

Hermione had to wonder if it was intentional, to put the Seventh year Gryffindors and Slytherins together. It was an excuse to get their aggression out in a monitored space, at least.

A woman around the height of Paige approached, in plain black robes. At first, Hermione thought they were a First year who'd failed to get sorted. This impression was shattered as the short woman smiled up at them as she passed, with a missing eye and wrinkled features. She looked around the same age as Flickwick, like she was about to invite them all to tea.

"Hello lovelies," she greeted them, a little pat to one girl's shoulder who smiled back. "Mathilda, hello, so nice to see you looking better."

"Thank you, miss," this so-called Mathilda blushed, her hand brushed through her hair as she dipped her head.

"Yes, yes, a far sight better than last time I saw you." She tottered into the room, as if she expected them all to follow her. She popped back out, her one good eye much like an owl's eye. "Come now, come now, dears, dears, we have so much to catch up on!"

The classroom was much the same as it had been in the past, save for the woman who was only up to Hermione's mid-chest. She had a hat that was reminiscent of the twenties, rounded with small flairs to the sides. She popped that onto the table, and shucked off her robes.

"Hello, hello," she smiled and twiddled her wand between her hands. Her wand was at least fifteen inches, and so thin it would snap from a stern wind. "Please, please find your seats. Please, please, try to mix it up," she wiggled her shoulders and did a small dance, and giggled all the while. "Slytherins and Gryffindors, one after the other, and boy-girl, if such things matter to you. if neither applies, well, just pick someone you'd want to hex." She laughed, light and musical, and waved her tiny hands. "Please, please, no hexes, not yet, not yet."

Hermione went to sit down at an empty desk, towards the back, and watched as Blaise and Draco fought to sit beside her. Blaise had a too-wide grin on his face, and a little more weight to him. Draco was bested, and he looked miserable as he took a seat next to Abigail.

"I had to," Blaise whispered to Hermione, behind his hand. "I hate that girl, she's insufferable."

Hermione laughed, but caught it in a cupped hand. She peered past Blaise to Draco and Abigail. Abigail had a bright red flush to her face and her hand wouldn't stop toying with her hair. She was pretty, Hermione supposed, but the upwards tilt to her nose and size of her teeth made her look like a Christmas elf.

"Now, now, my dears, my dears," Proudfoot began, a tilt to her mouth and sorrow in her sigh. "I'm deeply sorry, so sorry, for missing your first week. However, it was with good reason, good reason, I assure you." She straightened her posture, and lifted her chin. She smiled around, as if ignorant to how tiny she looked at the front of the class. "I'm your new teacher, you know, you know, you may call me Ms. Proudfoot, I'm no professor, not at all."

Hermione took out her quill from Emily and began to note down snippets from Ms. Proudfoot.

"I worked in the Auror's office, two wars, two wars, too many if you ask me," she tensed, her hands still clasped in front of her. "We'll be learning defensive magic, of course, but more than that, we'll be learning about empathy and of magical beings, from all places -- _all_ places."

The woman waved her wand and their desks (with themselves included) were split down the rows and rotated. There were four rows total, now split into two groups of two rows. This took everyone by surprise, as they stared at the tiny woman who'd just flung forty students around without issue.

"First class," she grinned, as she looked around. "First class will be a baseline. Your classes have been very mixed, very mixed, and I want to know what _you_ know. Each pair will come up, and show us all three offensive spells and three defensive spells. Repetition is fine, but versatility is important. Think of it as a dueling club, in a sense, and we shall use that to decide what needs work." She looked around, proud as her name suggested. "I've been in the Auror department for forty years; I can guarantee you that being thrown into the thick of it is the best way to gauge yourselves."

"So," Hermione put up her hand. "We'll be dueling our partner?"

"Oh, so eager to off me, Granger?" Blaise moaned, in defeat. There were laughs, and Hermione avoided looking at him.

"No, no. They will act as your second. You'll go up, face another pair, and whichever group has the most people standing by the end -- well, it's not a contest, but if you're anything like the recruits in the Auror's department..." She winked, and pointed to the couple Hermione had seen on the train.

She looked across the room, at Draco, who looked mortified.

The pairs proceeded to stand up, and to face one another. It remained tame, at first, as most people cast _rictusempra _or _protego_on repeat. Each pair had three spells to cast, offensive and defensive, and they'd be asked to sit down if they failed to protect themselves correctly. Proudfoot would point for them to sit down if she decided they were out, as no one was out to _hurt_ one another, not really. There seemed to be no logic to how she dismissed people, and they were casting far more than the number of spells they were told to.

Further to that, each pair approached the starting point with fanatic excitement, at being the best, at winning for their side. There was no set prize, and nothing to be won. It was a friendly competition; wasn't it?

And then Draco was called up, along with Abigail. They took down Ginny and Theo, who bickered about Quidditch all the way back to their seats. They also withstood Pansy and Neville, who couldn't work out who was meant to cast what. It was a little bit of a mess, and Hermione frowned.

The exercise made no sense.

She and Blaise remained as the last pair to be called upon for their side, and by this point, Hermione had worked it out. Or, she thought she had.

"Please, please, step up," Proudfoot smiled, tepid as she waited for them to follow instructions.

"No."

Hermione stood, her arms crossed and her brow raised. The class stared at her, in a mixture of murmurs and confusion.

"Oh?" Proudfoot pressed, her mouth reduced to a fine point.

"You lied to us," Hermione smiled, as a light seemed to go on behind her eyes. "About the exercise."

Blaise had his wand out and approached the mark as instructed. He looked back at Hermione as if she were about to get them in trouble. "Hey, Granger, let's not -- "

"No." She shook her head, her smile wider with each second. "This is about sides. And, war. Isn't it?"

Proudfoot interlaced her fingers. She dipped her head, to encourage Hermione to speak.

"You split us up and pitted us against one another. You've given us free reign to attack one another and incentivized it with some ideal about _winning_. But there's no _winning_ here; it's just people getting taken out, and nothing is gained. You lied, in the reason you asked us to attack one another. And we gladly did it. Because if it's not_ us_ going down, it's the other side -- but we're the same, on either side." Hermione looked at the other side, as she put her wand away and reached out a hand to the other side.

The murmurs stopped, and the air was still.

"Oh, that's so bogus, Granger," Abigail raised her wand. "You're just afraid we'll _hurt_ you -- " Her wand twirled as she went to cast her first offensive spell, but Draco moved to stand in front of her.

Her partner, defected. He faced towards Hermione and Blaise, his gaze fixed on Hermione. The ice of his eyes was offset by the silver in his tie, and she wanted so much to have not said a word. She should have just followed instructions, but there was no sense in it, in any of this.

Draco reached out, to accept her hand, and smirked as they made contact. It was a handshake, nothing more, and she'd held his hands in far stranger circumstances. She smiled up at him, as Blaise cast Abigail a sickly look.

"Great, I'm gonna fail because you two are too weak to do what you're told; _fine_." Abigail hissed, her wand raised higher. She yanked Draco out of the way, by his shoulder, and pointed her want at Hermione. "_Confringo_!"

Hermione braced for impact, but nothing landed. Her eyes remained squinted shut, until she slowly parted them. A shield radiated out from Proudfoot's wand, and it was Abigail who'd been thrown onto the floor a few feet away. She looked confused, and upset, but Hermione felt nothing but relief.

"Ms. Granger _did_ listen." Proudfoot interjected. She smiled, and the class watched with cautious eyes. "A little grander than I intended, but that's the spirit of it."

Hermione saw Draco's hand twitch, the same one that had been yanked from hers. She worked her hand into the crook of her elbow, her head dropped low as she blushed. Blaise had stepped in front of her, his wand trained on Abigail who was still on the floor.

"I'm glad _someone_ got it." Proudfoot waved her hand, and the desks slowly slid back into place. The students were able to shuffle, to their own places and at their own pace. "Just because you're told to attack doesn't mean you should do so; this class is about defensive magic, no doubt, and there will be times to practice it. But I expect you to be critical of it, to question _why _you're attacking someone, and to ensure they're safe after the fact. This isn't a class for those who want to throw spells without thought; this is about defense, in all senses of the word."

Proudfoot shuffled back to the front of the class. She outlined the expectations for the semester, and for the class at large. She also wrote out formal rules and expectations for spell use, and for spells that would be banned regardless of their versatility. These involved anything that caused a mess or permanent effects such as pus or wounds.

Hermione's right hand burned the whole class, no matter how she clenched and unclenched it.

"Only you could get away with that in class," Blaise exhaled, a grin on his wide mouth.

"I just thought it was strange, to split us up and make us fight." Hermione tapped at the table, a sweet smile sent towards Proudfoot who'd allowed them a chance to speak with their table partner.

"All this house unity stuff is going to make me barf."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and double-checked her notes. She smiled up at Blaise, and noticed how miserable Draco looked next to Abigail. She had started the lesson excited to be next to him, but now she was all angles and pouts.

"If I don't show up to class tomorrow, assume he offed me."

"I'll protect you," Hermione joked back, as she dimly realized that Blaise was yet another Quidditch boy. She shuffled in her seat, and crossed her legs, as she tried to keep very much to herself.

"I can survive Malfoy, don't worry about me." He winked, and began to scribble a rough translation of all the notes from the board. Not exact, not precise, but enough to be functional. "Emily mentioned your party Saturday."

Hermione stared at Blaise, unsure when they'd become companionable. "Um, yes, she's insisting."

Blaise flexed a brow at her and nodded, as he parted his lips with his tongue. "You get to see how the Slytherins do things." He said this lower, and had to lean in to compensate for the volume. But as soon as he said it, the hot air brushed across her ear, she sat up ramrod straight.

Hermione huffed out a laugh, and heard a crack. She saw Draco toss aside his ornate peacock quill, and pull out another. 

"Oh, ew, there's ink everywhere, Draco!"

"Shut up." Draco snipped back at Abigail, as he stabbed the quill at his parchment.


	18. amour donned.

> _ **September 15th, 1998. A gleaned fact, a small thing**_ **.**

Hermione had never been known to ignore a book, especially if it was given as a gift.

It had almost been two weeks since Professor Ayers had given her the book on light magic and the power of well-wishes. She turned it over, cover to cover, and contemplated it. It was written much like those Muggle self-help books, with very few practical spells or rituals mentioned. Not unless you counted the power of positive thinking.

And yet Professor Ayers seemed to think this book was important, so much so she'd made a point to remind Hermione about it. She flopped onto her back, stretched across a couch in the Gryffindor Common Room.

She had endured three different, double period classes, and she'd not gotten time to see Ginny. So she crammed her book reading into her time with Ginny, and that left her with some companionable silence. Plus, it was nice to visit the Common Room, given they weren't _banned_ from it. It was just that they had a different place they were expected to sleep.

Which was fine.

It was late anyway, as she'd sat through dinner time with little issue. Unless you counted the way Draco kept shooting her looks. At first she thought she'd imagined it, but he'd spent the day in desperate need of her attention, and he'd held her hand, by choice, in class, and...

And that was also why she'd sneaked into the Common Room, to see Ginny. She had given her a run down about how Draco had cut up her Potions ingredients for her, how he'd tried to sit with her for meals, and how he'd opened a door for her. It wasn't gossip, it was Hermione, genuinely confused, unable to piece together what was going on with Draco.

Or when he'd become Draco so consistently to her.

"I think he wants to get between your pages," Ginny kept a straight face, though it seemed difficult for her. She had been on Prefect rounds, and that left them in an almost-empty common room. Only a rogue pair of Third year boys remained, though they were locked in a battle of wizard's chess. They both looked miserable as if they were being forced to complete the game.

Perhaps they were, out of pride.

"It's strange though, how he's pivoted." Hermione looked at Ginny, as if she'd have an explanation.

"I think," Ginny worked her tongue against the backs of her teeth, in an oversized t-shirt and flannel pants. "It's weird that Emily is so onto you about him, y'know? She's always sniffing around you two, when you're together."

"I thought she was being friendly," Hermione pouted.

"Oh, for sure, but she's also just..." Ginny jigged her leg, as she tended to her well-loved broomstick. She polished the dull wood, her tongue poked out between her lips. "Everyone handles crushes differently. When Lavender and Ron got together, you were peeved about it. You avoided them when they were together."

"Because they were obnoxious -- "

"But if you'd known, beforehand, before they got down each other's throats, you'd have probably..." Ginny gestured, her hands intersecting. "Stopped it."

"He's a blood purist with a horrible attitude, and a family who'd rather see me six feet under than with their precious baby," Hermione narrowed her eyes, her lip curled with disbelief. "Why do you insist on implying I'm after every boy?"

"Well, you just gave me the entire timeline of you two flirting, holding hands, sneaking 'round," Ginny's nose wrinkled. "He's a prick, but after how often he got the shit kicked out of him last year, I don't see how he could keep up that prickliness, y'know." She yawned, and leaned back with her broom across her lap.

"Why'd he get -- who beat him up?"

"It was chaos last year. I probably roughed him up a few times, same as Neville, Luna... It was a free for all. Everyone was just after everyone." Ginny chewed the meat of her cheek, as she stood up from the floor. "I know you had it rough with the hunt for the Horcruxes, and that must've sucked, but this place was lawless. It was biased, for sure, the Professors tried to help people, but..." Ginny's throat tensed. "Blood just looks like blood when it's all over your hands. S'hard to tell the difference."

The boys had dipped out, with one boy marginally more excited. They were left in an empty common room, and with little in the way of answers.

Ginny took their cue, and pushed herself up from the floor. She gave Hermione a one-armed hug. She had her broom to carry and was riddled with sleepiness.

Hermione had that book, on good intentions.

She opened it again, and lingered on the phrase _Amourdonne_.

Unlike the rest of the book, which was floaty and vague, this section came with more directions than an explanation. Even the font was slightly different as if someone had copied it out of another book and superimposed it into _this_ book.

The minor differences accounted for why she'd first noticed it when she'd quickly flipped through it, but she'd not thought much on it. But as she read more closely, her skin began to crawl.

An Armourdonne was popular in Ancient Greece, though the word was French; _love gives_. The concept originated from a myth about a stranger who promised a woman to protect their child if they should perish while at sea. It was not an empty platitude, but a genuine vow, to protect and to live for the child.

This involved far more complex protective magical spells, that would remain active in the stead of the fallen mother. They would protect against the darkness and from those who'd wish harm upon them. This stranger would essentially be transformed from a person to an organic ward, for someone they'd perhaps never know. That was the safety of it; to have this protective magic extend beyond the child, beyond any affection for the child, and in the interest of simply doing a good deed.

There were only two known witches to have sworn to an Amourdonne; as Hermione had read above, it was more than a godparent or a new guardian. It required purity of spirit, intention, and mind. They couldn't know the child they were slated to protect, and in turn, it was a completely selfless act. They stood to gain nothing from the arrangement, and if anything, their lives would come under threat from those who would wish to do harm to the child.

However, as the book went on, Amourdonne combined with familial love was considered to be one of the strongest forms of good.

_Why,_ Hermione wondered, _did this sound so familiar._

* * *

> _ **September 16th, 1998. A morning like most, with a girl unlike most.** _

Double History of Magic was a welcome concept, which Hermione was excited to see the end of. She did as she normally would, she took notes and listened to Professor Ayers who ran them through a great Ministry conspiracy from the early 19th century. It was probably important, but Hermione was distracted, which was awful.

Draco was beside her, at the next desk over. Some Seventh year boy had sat next to Hermione, and she'd been too distracted to even notice it, or question it.

She had too many things to worry about. The strange thread that spawned from her ring with Draco, the whole Selwyn thing, and now Professor Ayers had given her some cryptic message that made her want to tear her hair out. She toyed with the ring that rested against her chest, to see Ron's confirmation that he'd come to Hogsmeade that weekend for her birthday.

She had assumed he and Harry would come down anyway, but with the party, she desperately needed them.

And she needed to work out what was going on with Draco's dreams, but she couldn't even look at him right now without a blush assaulting every exposed part of her skin. She waited, and waited, and then the class began to file out.

"Are you heading to lunch?"

"Erm, no, not yet," Hermione replied, without thought, as the boy beside her waited for her to pack up. "Do you need help finding the Great Hall?"

"What?"

"Oh! Sorry, I just assumed that you'd need directions -- "

He scoffed from the back of his throat and left in a hurry, and she realized too late he'd asked because he wanted to get lunch _with_ her.

If he got offended from a small misunderstanding, then he wasn't worth her time anyway.

Draco remained fixed next to her, his fist scrunched against his cheek and his gaze set on Professor Ayers.

"Do you two need a minute?" Ayers asked, skeptical.

"Actually Professor, I needed to see you," Hermione shot Draco a look, but didn't shoo him away. It wasn't a private concern, not that she knew of.

"Ah..." Ayers looked confused, but sat on the edge of her desk. She smiled at Hermione, her long red hair in two long plaits. "Were you confused about the topic?"

"No, actually, it was about that book."

Ayers shifted, as she had when Hermione had asked about Lily, and the pieces were floating within her reach. "Mmh?"

Hermione looked at Draco, who refused to move, and she decided that she didn't so much mind if he heard. If he knew about Selwyn, and potentially the Horcrux that Voldemort had left behind, then there was no doubt he'd have heard of an Armourdonne.

"Did you change the book?"

Ayers smiled, curious. "Whatever do you mean?"

"The book you gave me wasn't a magical book; it was a Muggle equivalent. One of those new-age magic books," Hermione exhaled, heavily. "However, there was one section that had a different font and was written in a different tone. It came across more like -- a textbook, I suppose, whereas the rest of it was about positive attitudes."

Ayers tipped her head side to side, and shrugged. "I didn't want you caught out with an, ah, illegal text book."

"Illegal?" Draco chimed in, aghast at the idea that Hermione had been given something illicit.

Ayers looked at the door and flicked it shut with a wave of her hand. She mumbled beneath her breath, and Hermione recognized a charm for silencing the room. She looked at Draco and then to Hermione. "You're both Order initiates, correct?"

Draco nodded, and Hermione had to do a double-take. He shot her a nasty look, as if it weren't _that_ surprising.

"Years ago, Dumbledore was worried that Voldemort would pursue Horcruxes as a means to secure his -- eternal control," Ayers fought for the right words, but failed. "Immortality, I guess."

"And he made an Amourdonne to counteract that?"

Ayers wobbled her head on the spot, unsure how to answer that. "In a sense."

"That's what protected Harry," Hermione interjected.

"In part," Ayers nodded, and pointed to Hermione with pride. "It's... Not exactly a perfect solution, but there were concerns about the children. The issue is that Dumbledore never told anyone who he'd entrusted to be the Amourdonne. With this concern over the Horcrux, we're worried whoever was entrusted to act as Harry's Amourdonne is under threat. If they die, then Harry's vulnerable. Moreso than he always has been."

"I thought the protection wore off when he turned seventeen." Hermione sat back, her arms crossed.

"Lily's act faded by then; hence the Armourdonne. They protect like... Plastic wrap around a sandwich. All the dark magic kinda hits the Amourdonne, then slides off. People will keep slinging Dark Magic at _Harry_, and then it dissipates. But if they target the Armourdonne, they're exceptionally vulnerable. Hence why Dumbledore thought it safest to tell no-one who he'd elected to take on that role. The more of a stranger they are, the stronger the protection."

"So a Horcrux is an ultimate act of selfishness and evil; an Amourdonne is the ultimate act of self-sacrifice and good." Draco paraphrased, as he looked between the two women.

Ayers nodded, deeply. "I actually got the text about Amourdonne from a book your mother gave me, Draco." She smiled, fondly. "She's a very beautiful woman."

"My father's lucky to have her." Draco brushed off.

Ayers strained against her urge to shit on Lucius, and it showed. She grit her teeth and pivoted back to Hermione. "I had thought you'd read the book and get back to me within a day or two -- "

"I would have, had I realized it was about Order business." Hermione paused, to stare at Draco. "Wait, when did you join the Order?"

"First day of term, when I found out I'd be disarming half the school and outing Death Eaters." He rubbed at his jawline. "I wasn't about to do all that for free."

"What do you _mean_ \-- "

"They're protecting my parents, in return for my assistance." Malfoy waved a hand. "We agreed to fund the school's reconstruction, to assist with capturing Death Eaters, and I was to carry on with the information that Snape provided based on his time as Headmaster."

"I know Selwyn is Snape," Hermione interjected, bitter.

Ayers and Draco exchanged a tense look, and Hermione wished she had two books to lob them equally.

"I don't understand why I've been kept out of all this information. I helped just as much last year, I -- "

"You're very loud, and you like to be right," Ayers cut in, nerves in her voice. "We just weren't sure if you'd be able to keep a secret."

"Oh, I keep plenty of secrets!" Hermione opened her mouth, and then snapped it shut.

"Plus, as Draco has said in the past, you've got no skills in Occlumency, so if you were to be in a tense situation against any Legilimens, you'd be ripe for the picking. The less you know, the easier it is for you to lie." Ayers let out a sigh, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"That's rich coming from you! You can't _stop_ talking!"

Hermione didn't like the switch in Ayers' eyes at that, where there had been warm maternal instinct and kindness now sat a blank slate. "I know how to appear babbling and trustworthy, so as to gain confidence and lower peoples' expectations of me. In turn, they trust me far more than they should while knowing so little about me. How do you think I managed to survive working underneath Umbridge?"

Hermione had never seen emerald green eyes so empty before, and it made her skin crawl. She did have a habit of leaning into her emotions, out of a sense of righteousness and of protection. She had always considered her passion a strength, but it had been listed to her as a weakness several times now.

"If you want to practice Occlumens, speak with Selwyn," Draco seemed unaffected, as he pushed himself out of his chair. "Or I can arrange for you to meet with my mother"

"Your mother?"

The corner of Draco's mouth twitched, as he waved for Hermione to stand up. She did so and looked back to Professor Ayers who'd melted back to her sweet demeanor. She trusted her more and less, all at once, unsure what to make of the cold switch. Hermione could swear she saw a hint of an apology to her expression, but it was probably an act, too.

She was trusting everyone less and less, the more she got to know about them.

* * *

> _ **September 18th, 1998. Things get worse...** _

By Double Potions on Friday, Hermione was sick of everyone.

Classes had been much the same as always, if a little harder given it was N.E.W.T. level, but she was wrapped up in mysteries and half-told truths. It annoyed her, deeply, that Ayers and Draco seemed to be closer than she'd realized. Perhaps that was her imagination, and she decided it didn't matter.

She avoided Draco at meals, and in their dorm. She kept to herself, eager to get through her classwork and get through the party that night.

She was exhausted at the thought of it. With how their classes were laid out, Draco and Hermione were assigned a tiny window of Potions class on a Friday afternoon, which bled into their evening. They'd not finish until six in the evening, and then they had to get all the way to Hogsmeade.

She almost decided not to go, but Harry and Ron were coming up for the weekend, to see herself and to make use of Ginny's Hogsmeade trip on Saturday. It lined up perfectly, and would almost be like a double date.

And now Hermione was worried about Ron, as she'd not spoken to him in more than two weeks unless you counted the messages through the rings.

"You know," Draco spoke, a little too much gravel to his usually silky voice. "Most girls are excited to have a party thrown for them."

"I'm sure Paige is excited," Hermione responded, drily.

Draco smiled, and she hated that, she hated how he smiled around her now, and how he was nice to her, and she just sort of hated everything about him. He was lying to her about something, and he was part of the Order of the Phoenix, by their request, before her, and that pissed her off, honestly.

"You're meant to crush that with your knife, not chop it."

"Please," Hermione snapped. "Don't tell me what to do."

Selwyn looked across to them, as it was only the three of them. He had his blonde hair tied back, and ornate green robes on. Hermione couldn't tell how much of it was acting, and how much of it was Snape simply out to start anew. She kept swear words at the front of her mind, in case he or Draco tried to pry.

Because she was _so_ easy to read.

They saw through their Wolfsbane Potion to its final stages, so as to ensure it would be ready for the next full moon.

Selwyn didn't speak to them through the whole lesson, start to finish, and Hermione was thankful.

"I'm surprised, Ms. Granger." He broke the silence. Of course he would do something so prattish, as they were packing up.

"Yes Professor?" Hermione kept her tone level, as she decided if it was worth trying to pray. She just wanted to be at the Three Broomsticks with Harry and Ron, and to curl up in her bed soon after.

"It took you almost two weeks of school time to deduce what had happened. If I had ill-intentions towards the school, it'd already be too late. Perhaps that is a large part of _why_ I thought it was impractical to involve you in any business surrounding the Order. For all your facts and figures, you have no sense of _people_."

"Oh, you're one to talk about a lack of people skills!" Hermione slammed down her Potions textbook, which she'd been in the process of packing away. "This may surprise you Professor, but I have a lot on my plate, and your -- _showmanship_, is the least of my concerns."

"Detention, Ms. Granger."

Hermione threw her hands up, which sent her knife clattering to the floor. She winced at that, as it had been an honest mistake.

"We'll make it two; Monday and Tuesday evening." He smirked, no attempt to hide the man beneath the flesh. "For improper use of supplies and endangering a fellow student."

"Why'd you do it?" Hermione asked, boldfaced now that she was already in trouble. "Why steal a man's identity and ruin his life? Because yours was so impossible to reconcile?"

"Make it a full week." He remained unaffected, his voice still disguised with Grimward's. She only assumed that, she'd never met the man.

"Sir," Draco interjected, a furrow to his brow. He stumbled over a few sounds, as he tried to arrange a defense. "I have to -- "

"As much as I know you'd love to join Ms. Granger in her detentions, your chivalry does not match your robes." He lowered his gaze to Draco's Slytherin colours, and then refocused on Hermione. "Detention, Monday through Thursday, here in the dungeons."

Hermione wished he'd died, for a split second. But that was too cruel, even for her. She had endured a stressful week, of riddles and puzzles on top of essays and practical spellwork. She had no idea what was going on with Ron, and she was anxious about that, and then on top of it, all Draco was giving her this pitying look. She swiped at her eyes and looked to the door, as Selwyn remained in the doorframe. He had his hand pressed to the stonework, and turned with a slack smirk.

"Oh, and -- your Hogsmeade priveledges are revoked until you've served your detentions. Students pending punishment aren't permitted to leave school grounds. You understand," he kept his face neutral, but she saw the joy in his beady little eyes. "Good evening, and, happy birthday Ms. Granger. Mr. Malfoy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS -- QUITE A CHAPTER.


	19. a sneaking suspicion.

> _**September 18th, 1998. A rule breaker and a risk taker.** _

Hermione and Draco were left in the Potions classroom, with the faint glimmer of Wolfsbane Potion to keep them company. It shimmered with a miniature replica of constellations, though Hermione couldn't see a pattern in them.

She was crying too hard for that.

Draco's jaw shifted, as he plotted an approach. Hermione had no interest, not in his reassurances or his excuses. Snape was a miserable git, and he couldn't even have the decency to answer her questions. Worst of all, her attitude had been _exactly_ what she'd been faulted for in the past. She had spoken out of turn, and she had spoken about Order matters in the open.

Sure, it was the dungeons, but -- she felt so stupid. She had been so childish, and now she had detention. Worse yet, she wouldn't be able to go to Hogsmeade.

"Hermione," Draco reached out to grab her arm, before she did something rash like run away.

Hermione tugged her arm out of his grip, before he could touch her. She stared him down, her thoughts as clear on her face as ever. He was complicit in what had happened to Grimward, and he was the one who'd assisted the man to the Shrieking Shack. No doubt it'd been orchestrated, but why allow his parents to be murdered? Why allow him to receive a kiss?

Polyjuice Potion, she surmised. That part was easy enough. He'd been rendered useless, and so was an easy target for the potion, and for whatever twisted plans Snape had.

Draco either read her mind or saw the thoughts in her eyes because he didn't try to touch her again. He looked more upset than Hermione felt was warranted. She was the one who'd been kept out of the loop, she was the one no one trusted, and she was the one who'd done so much for everyone last year.

She felt for Harry, for all the times he'd lashed out, and for all the times he'd been neglected. She had always thought he was acting a little irrational, but now she _felt_ it, that anger as if she were the weak link.

"We can sneak out to Hogsmeade," Draco said, simple and crisp. "They added several pathways between there and Hogwarts, last year. In case the castle was stormed, and they needed to escape."

Hermione didn't have to ask who he meant by _'they'_.

It was late, almost six. Their Potions classes were meant to end at six; the party was meant to begin at seven. They had time, plenty of it, but she didn't know if she felt like going.

"You must've known he'd not take lightly to what you said," Draco's brows knitted together, as he dipped his posture to catch her eye. "You as good as _asked_ for detention."

Hermione's gaze bounced around the room, to the empty cauldrons and the treated specimens that lined the walls. She did everything she could that kept her from looking at Draco because she expected him to leave, to rush off to Hogsmeade to join the rest of their year.

She didn't expect him to encourage her chin up with his index finger, and his thumb bracketed on her chin. He encouraged her to meet his eye, as it was her choice to meet his eye. She'd spent the better part of the week avoiding him when all he'd done is shadow her steps and keep in the corners of her vision.

"I'm sorry the Order kept you out of things. You're an asset and they're idiots to not recognize that." He cast a sidelong glance at the door, then back to her. "I'll tell you what I know, if you come with me."

Hermione felt like she'd eaten too many Fizzing Whizzbees. The promise of knowledge was a weakness, another one of her _many_ weaknesses, but if he had answers...

"Where's this pathway you mentioned?"

* * *

Hermione had expected them to run rapid clip to a secret tunnel and burst into Hogsmeade with triumph in their eyes.

Instead, they had gone back to their dorms to ditch their books, their robes and change into -- dare she say it -- party attire. Ginny had told her during their break after Double Charms that morning to make sure she dressed 'nice'. Which begged the question, what the hell does one wear to a party.

A little light went on in her mind, of a dress she'd worn to Slughorn's Christmas party. She dug through her trunk, and then her purse, to find the thing. She mirrored her look from that evening, as it suited the evening ahead. She'd been complimented, so -- so that was a good sign. She'd done something right.

Right?

Besides, if Snape were to find out about her breaking out of the school grounds, then this would act as her last evening of fun before she endured a year of detentions.

She twirled up her hair, at least in the front, and put on her caramel trenchcoat. She kept a pair of ballet flats, which she wore most weekends when she knew she'd be exclusively in the dorms or Library.

Hermione felt her heartbeat against her throat, as she looked around the disarray of her dorm. The girls had clearly dressed up and left a warzone in their wake. Navy, teal, yellow and green scattered the place, like a painting by the late Van Gogh. She smiled to herself, as she slipped out of her room, her thumb toying with her ring.

_"Coming Hogsmeade?"_

"_Yes._" She willed back.

Draco was at the top of the stairs, as he toyed with the cuff of his shirt. He fumbled with a cufflink, which resembled a silver dragon head. A tiny emerald dotted the eye, which Hermione took note of as she assisted him. She threaded it and secured it, and pat his wrist to sign that she was done. But he didn't remove his wrist from her grip, as he was confused.

"Did I do it wrong?" Hermione looked down at the cufflink, unsure if there was a way she was meant to do it.

"You've worn that before."

Hermione's head popped up, to meet his eye. "Oh. Well yes, it's something I own."

"You didn't get something new?"

Hermione forcibly threw his arm out of her grip, her teeth bared as she snorted. "Why should I have to get new clothes for a new event? I've only worn this dress once, so what sense is there in being so wasteful as to seek out another dress that I'll only wear _once_ \-- "

Draco shook his head, and laughed, and she wanted to jab him with his cufflink. "You'd make my mother cry, if she heard that."

"Your mother has a very privileged life if wearing a dress twice would bring her to tears."

There was a warmth in Draco's gaze as he looked down at her, and she didn't know what to do with her arms. She crossed and uncrossed them, and decided she looked most intimidating with her hands bunched down by her sides. She lifted her chin an inch or so, and Draco watched the whole thing with relish.

"It's cute," Draco said, in a way that suggested it wasn't actually cute. "It suits you."

"Well it's my dress, so I should hope so!" Hermione worried her hand against the back of her neck, like something was crawling across her neck. She shrugged off the sensation and looked at the doorway. "Where's this secret passageway you spoke of, Malfoy."

"Ooh, Granger," Draco deepened his voice, in a mockery, as he breezed past her. "Back to that, are we."

After a long walk back up to the castle, and a few close calls with the patrolling Professors, Hermione and Draco managed to arrive at the statue of Gilly Gupweed. He knocked his knuckles against the plaque, which described Gilly in some detail. She watched his fingers and realized he'd spelled _'apertum'_.

A series of stones descended, silently, and fog consumed them. It was deception magic, a way to secure a swift exit. She shuddered to think that such places existed within the castle, where someone could simply appear or disappear without anyone else knowing.

Especially when she considered the Marauders Map, which never showed such a secret.

When Draco had said there were pathways, she excepted them to be much like a corridor or a hallway. Instead, it was rough dirt and overgrown roots, with an occasional ever-bright candle, lodged into the wall. Wax decorated the floors, and the smell of damp earth followed them most of the way.

Damp earth, and whatever cologne Draco decided to wear.

She latched onto the smell of dirt.

He led them though it was a linear path, and it wasn't until he let go of her hand that she realized he'd been holding it. It was dark, certainly, and perhaps she'd be left behind if he didn't keep her close. She didn't linger on that, on how Draco holding her hand was now an anticipated element, rather than a cause for alarm.

The ground began to angle upwards, and the smell of earth disappated. Now all she had was his cologne and the bob of his white-blonde hair. He had a black suit on, as he tended to wear, but it had details in emerald and silver. It wasn't something he'd worn before, she surmised, but it looked so similar to everything else.

As the approached the final descent, Hermione saw a trap door above with no visible way to get out. It was high enough that she could climb, if needed, but... She squinted around, for something she could prop up.

"Granger," he gestured for her to stand in front of him. She did so, as she was too distracted by the trapdoor. "Ready?"

"Ready..?" She answered, both unsure and complicit. He settled his hands on her waist and lifted her up.

"Hey -- excuse me -- wait a second!" Hermione struggled against his grip, as he lifted her towards the trapdoor. She smacked the thing with her hand, and it popped open without issue. She was thankful for that, as he'd have otherwise rammed her head into a plank of wood. "We can use magic, you know! If you just give me a second -- " 

And he adjusted his grip, to push her out the rest of the way. She wished he'd allowed her to conjure a stepladder, rather than shove her through the trap door like a newborn baby. She managed to yank herself through, sprawled on the floor and her hair worried from the effort. 

Wait, had he pinched her ass?

_Malfoy._

Draco pulled himself through with ease, given he had upper body strength while she was -- academic. She blinked at him, as he was on his hands and knees with a massive grin on his face.

"It's more fun the Muggle way, isn't it?"

And he winked.

He fucking _winked_.

"Don't do that," Hermione stood up and fixed herself as best she could. She magicked some dirt off her coat and off of his suit, and he whispered a thank you.

"So you broke out of school and are sneaking around with a Slytherin," Draco drawled, as he led her towards the front door. She'd not even had a moment to look at the place they'd arrived in, which appeared to be someone's home.

"What is this place?"

"One of our homes away from home," Malfoy shrugged. "Mother doesn't like to stay in an inn, if she ever has business to visit Hogwarts, or if she comes to shop."

"So you just -- own a house that you never use."

"Oh no," Malfoy shook his head, a smiled. "We own twelve."

They found the front door, but Hermione was morbidly curious about the decor. It was all dark wood and white, with silver and green as accents. It was as if they'd never let go of Slytherin, though in truth, the Malfoy lineage was so tied to the house it would be impossible to decorate otherwise. She resisted the urge to light it up for a better look, as it was Draco's house.

They emerged into Hogsmeade, with his hand on her lower back and his cologne too rich for her.

The streets were a stark contrast to the way they'd been, before the war. People were all over the place, laughing, bright, happy, and there were children with their parents. A few children had ridiculous ice creams, stacked seven scoops high. A couple was riding a broom above, doing loops as the girl held on for dear life. She giggled, and they swooped, and she'd giggle again.

Hermione couldn't help but smile, at the life of it all, at how things had changed. He smiled down at her, for reasons she wasn't certain of.

They walked, side by side, with Malfoy's hand still positioned behind her. He didn't touch her, not unless he wanted to correct her path, but she shot him a nasty look and he'd relent.

"Why're you so -- " Hermione waved a hand between them as if that encompassed her question.

"It's hardly my fault you've been friends with boys instead of men," Malfoy bit that comment a little too close to the end, and smiled as handsome as he could manage to cover it up. "Aren't you sick of feeling stuck?"

Hermione shot him a confused look, but then it made sense. He'd peered into her mind, at least once, and so he'd latched onto her feelings of inadequacy. Like how she was envious that Luna and Ginny found their style, while she still felt like that awkward teenage girl who'd been asked to the Yule Ball by Viktor Krum.

Malfoy started and stopped more sentences than she could count, as he tried to further his point. But he didn't seem able to commit, and they arrived at the Three Broomsticks before he'd found the words.

"Hermione!" Ginny cried from the doorway, a half-empty glass of Firewhiskey held in one hand, and another fresh glass in her other hand. "Birthday happy! Happy birth! Happy birthmas!"

Hermione started forward, to catch Ginny as she tripped over the leg of a chair. The Firewhiskey went straight onto Draco, but he'd managed to cast _protego_ so it hit thin air and dribbled to the floor.

"Um, Ginny, hello," Hermione giggled, in spite of herself. "Are you okay? Are you with -- "

A dogpile formed, as Ron and Harry appeared, along with Luna, and Neville, and a few other Gryffindors from the years above and below her.

The phrase 'happy birthday' bounced between them, as Hermione was drowned in hugs and the smell of alcohol. The group dispersed, back to their respective tables, and she now realized just how many people had been invited. Her anxiety shot through the roof as Ron approached her, and gave her a kiss without thought. She didn't _mind_ per se, it was a friendly peck, little more, but he nuzzled his nose against hers and she was painfully aware of how much he'd had to drink.

"I've missed you!" He exhaled, heavy and low. "Did you miss me?"

"Yes, I missed you all, too," Hermione pat Ron's hands off of her waist. "I'd really like a drink. Actually, Draco -- " Hermione looked back to Draco, to ask if he needed a drink, but he wasn't there. She looked around, confused, but he'd vanished.

"Let's get you something," Harry caught her hand with his. He was warm and familiar, and she felt like she was sneaking through the hallways of Hogwarts in Third year all over again. "You've been busy?"

"Of course," Hermione giggled, light, as Ron and Ginny followed their path. "I got detention just now, actually."

Harry's brows shot up, which showed off his emerald eyes all the more. "What did _you_ do!"

"I asked too many questions," Hermione smirked. "Professor Selwyn, I don't know if -- "

"Selwyn," Ron snapped, and the dragon biscuits he'd been holding turned to crumbs. "He's a right git, honestly, so haughty. He's definitely a Malfoy, he's got that shitty smirk, and that blonde hair -- "

"He's been uh, working with us," Harry toyed with his coin purse, as he counted coins. "I've got a tab, but I figure you won't be..."

"I'll have a Butterbeer, maybe two," Hermione smiled. "I can pay for myself."

"It's your birthday Hermione," Ginny whined. "Firewhiskey with fire-me!"

"Is she quite okay?" Hermione paused.

"I'm Ginny!"

"She's drunk," Ron interjected, as he caught his sister's wrist. She'd gone to grab someone's drink, and pouted at being stopped. "And she's gonna slow down..."

Ginny bounced on the spot, as she looked around the room. She was in search of someone specific and Hermione would take one guess as to who she was looking for. She looked at Hermione and wiggled her brow; once Hermione had a drink, she yanked her to the side.

"You turned up with _Malfoy_."

Hermione sucked in a breath, and she nodded. "We had class late together, and I wasn't actually allowed out..."

"Oh, it's fine, Wood and Flickwick came as chaperones, for the Seventh years," Ginny waved a hand towards the two professors who were more boozed up than Ginny. Flickwick had a glass on his head, while Wood had a stopwatch. She had no idea what they were testing, but they were pleased about it. "But, _Malfoy_!"

"Shh, shut up," Hermione hissed, as she looked around terrified.

"I'm just saying, he's um," Ginny squinted, as she looked for words. "He's a choice."

Hermione yanked Ginny towards the table Harry and Ron had taken to. She hadn't seen many of the Eighth years, but from the looks of it, they were segmented off with some Seventh years, or those who'd graduated. Seamus was over with Dean Thomas and Luna, who was with Neville and a few Ravenclaw girls. Emily wasn't around, and neither was Pansy...

Not that they mattered to Hermione.

A few hours passed like this, as Harry and Ron ran her through their time at the Ministry. They told her about the trials, and their cases, and about so many things that she couldn't hope to keep up. Ron was unhappy with the Auror work, while Harry was enthralled. Ginny remained politely attentive, but it was clear that she was interested in more than Harry's stories.

"So, Hermione, you uh..?" Ron asked, an arched brow, as he struggled to maintain focus. His gaze dropped to her chest, and a frown formed.

"I know," Hermione tapped her fingers on the table. "About you joining the um, Phoenix things." She spat that out like it was a dirty word, but it was easy to go unnoticed in a room so full of noise.

"We would have told you," Harry butted in, apologetic in his demeanor. "It got wrapped up in our Auror training, and with Kitty -- Ayers, that is," he corrected himself with a half-laugh.

"Oh, so you met her." Hermione scoffed, and knocked back a sip of her butterbeer.

"Yeah, she's pretty smart," Harry looked to Ron, who blinked himself back to this planet.

"And pretty _pretty_, y'know. Weird how she was gonna marry that miserable Selwyn swot." Ron toyed with a ring, one that he wore on his middle finger. It was gold with rubies inlaid and matched Hermione's.

Hermione tugged at her ring, and then took Ron's hand into her own. He let her, happily, a goofy smile on his face. "You like 'em?"

"They're not matching," Hermione frowned.

"What? No. I got you the sapphire one, 'cause you like blue, and it's your birthstone," he stumbled over his words. "I just figured, I dunno, I liked the gold and red one."

Hermione pulled the ring off his finger, and compared the internal etchings. The messages matched, which let her shoulders relax.

"What's the face for?" Ron snapped back, as he tugged the ring back from her.

"I was just -- "

"What?"

Hermione stared at him, annoyed that he'd jumped to the worst conclusions. Harry and Ginny were in the midst of a sloppy kiss, which held Ginny's interest more than Harry's. He was laughing too much, as she was halfway off her stool and sideways. He was more concerned about her falling than the kiss...

"What, Hermione?" Ron repeated, as he toyed with his thumb against the ring. "I told you a dozen times, I wasn't gonna propose to you, it was _really_ just a gift."

"No, no, it's just, can't you see it?" Hermione pointed to his ring, then to hers. "Gryffindor... Ravenclaw," she frowned. "There's got to be two others."

"What d'you mean?"

Hermione threw her hands up, which knocked her butterbeer. "I don't think this is a _pair_ of rings; I think this is a set."

"Well, no, the guy who sold them to me said there was just the two." Ron laughed, a hard sound. "It's just a coincidence, I guess, I didn't even realize it was a _house_ thing."

Hermione pointed at her ring, at the feathers, and then to the ring he wore which had swords etched into it. She stared at it, at him, as if she couldn't believe he could be so thick.

"You seriously can't just take a gift, and let it be?"

"Not when it's so obviously a loaded gift!"

"I told you I wasn't going to propose!"

"I meant loaded, in the sense that there are clearly two other rings out there, which stands to reason that this is a four-way communication device, not two!"

"You're being paranoid, Hermione!"

"Uh, hey," Oliver had come over, in the midst of their shouts. The rest of the inn was unaffected, though the jovial giggles and stories died down. "What's going on here?"

"Hermione's just freaking out over nothing," Ron rolled his eyes, as he took a deep sip of his firewhiskey. His ears and cheeks and pitched red, while Hermione was smattered with blush from the navel up.

"Can we just," Harry tried to interject but failed as Hermione stood up.

"Take your stupid ring," Hermione yanked the necklace off and tossed it onto the table. She didn't care, about the silver thread, or the kind words that were exchanged. "I'm going."

"Hermione, don't be stupid -- "

"Oh, why don't you take your own advice!" Hermione pivoted on her heel. "Thank you for ruining everything, like you _always_ do, Ron!"

And she was out the door of the inn, out into the night.

This wasn't the night she'd wanted. She wanted to go out, to laugh and socialize, to have a few drinks and perhaps even dance.

Instead, she was on a now-deserted street. It was late, perhaps after ten, even later, and she wasn't even meant to be out here. She guessed that Wood would tell Selwyn she had been out, and then her detention would be doubled, and that was fine.

She didn't know what to expect.

But she couldn't remember how to get back to the house where Malfoy had brought them through. She didn't know which direction it was, and even if she worked it out, it'd be locked to her. It was his house, after all, and that was why he'd been able to use that passageway.

Instead, the smell of smoke caught her attention.

She turned, slowly, and saw Pansy, Emily, Blaise and Draco down the street. They either failed to notice her, or failed to care. She hovered, uselessly, her hands interlocked and her stomach in pain. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't, this was her birthday, and she wanted to have fun, and she wanted answers, and -- 

"Ah, you're still here."

Hermione turned, to see Oliver. He looked red in the face, likely from the heat in the inn.

"If you want to head back to the castle," he paused, as he looked back at the inn, and then to her. "I can escort you."

"Don't you have to chaperone?" Hermione replied, drily, her eyes heavy from unshed tears.

"Ah, Flickwick's a good sort, he'll survive," he smiled, loosely, and stepped away from the door.

Hermione shrugged and allowed Oliver to guide her in the direction of the castle.

She looked over her shoulder, to Draco, who'd replaced the cigarette in his lips with Emily's lips. She had him pressed against a wall, as Blaise and Pansy had gone off somewhere else. She wished she'd not bothered to look for him. He was too difficult to look at, even at the best of times.

"Please," she nodded, curt and sharp, as she tried to piece together the path that led her here. They walked in silence at first, as Oliver took in the dying warmth of autumn. It wasn't until she shivered that she realized she'd left her trenchcoat at the inn.

Oliver shucked off his hoodie. He was in Muggle clothes, a simple grey longsleeved shirt, and black jeans. He tossed it over her shoulders and offered her a smile. "I'll be needing that back. I only have one."

"I thought I'd have fun," Hermione laughed. "Is that stupid?"

Oliver shrugged, his thumbs looped into his pockets. "I'm not really uh, big, on parties," he waved a hand. "A few drinks, sure, especially if it's after a good round of Quidditch. But, things like that..." He shook his head.

"I shouldn't have gone." Hermione adjusted the hoodie, to put her arms through it instead of wear it as a capelet. "I hate parties."

"Well, from what Harry and Ron said, they'll be here for th'weekend. You can go see them then."

Hermione didn't correct him, in that she wasn't strictly allowed to be out for the weekend. Not until after her detentions with Selwyn.

They spent the majority of the walk in companionable silence. Oliver lacked the cockiness he'd had most of the time, and was instead concerned. She didn't know if she looked particularly miserable, but she had rushed out of her own birthday party.

As they approached the dorms, he put out his hand. She gave him his hoodie, and smiled up at him.

"Thank you, for checking on me, and for walking me back."

Oliver shrugged. "Kinda have to," he exhaled through his teeth, and looked up at the Quidditch field that he'd helped Selwyn rebuild. "Sleep well, yeah?"

The moment hung between them, where Hermione wondered if it'd be weird to hug him goodbye. She didn't strictly hug people. But she decided, screw it, and gave him a hug. It was brief and friendly, and she thought he might have kissed her cheek out of reflex, but she couldn't be too sure.

He was a friend, she supposed, but he was also a teacher. Not her teacher, certainly, so the lines blurred.

She was a student-teacher, wasn't she?

"Happy birthday, Hermione." He waved her off, and she had almost forgotten about Draco and Emily, snogging viciously outside the Three Broomsticks.

But the mere thought tore open the memory, that she would have a week's worth of detentions, and that she'd rather liked how Draco looked in his suit. She was ready to go into her dorm, to cry herself to sleep.

That is, until she saw the big black dog. It was seated by the edge of the forest.

Hermione felt her heart slam into her throat.

Because the dog wasn't a _dog_.

As he trotted closer, he formed in the shadows from animal to human, his nose shortened and his fur receded. It was abstract and beautiful to watch, but most of all, it was _Sirius Black_.

"Fancy you being the type to run around with Professors," Sirius gasped, scandalized. "So much can change in three years."

"How long were you there -- wait -- _Sirius_!"

Where her hug with Oliver had been cordial, she sprinted for Sirius. He was clean and trimmed, so unlike she'd seen him in the past. He smelled of the forest and fresh air, but with some edge of spice. His tattoos peaked out of a fitted shirt, which was the nicest thing she'd ever seen him in. He lifted her, the same way her father would do whenever he'd pick her up from Kings Cross.

"Happy birthday, littlest bookworm," he grinned. "I don't have any presents for you, sadly, you can't carry much as a dog unless it's somewhere rather unpleasant -- "

"You were dead!"

"Sort of," he wobbled his head on the spot and winced. "Long story."

"Why're you _here_?"

"Truthfully, I saw you leaving the party with some strange man," he kept her close. Hermione didn't mind, strangely, not as she had around Oliver. "I followed you back here."

Hermione blinked up at him, as if unsure if he was real. There was an iridescence about his skin, much like a ghost but he was warm to the touch and very much _here_.

"From what Ayers said, you figured it out anyway." He gestured to himself, head to toe, his expression slackened and handsome.

"Does Harry know?"

"I was hoping to explain all of this to the three of you, tomorrow." Sirius shook his head. "D'you remember the Resurrection Stone?"


	20. gifts given.

> _ **September 19th, 1998. Like a dog chasing it's tail.**_

"So you died?" Harry paused, worrying the hem of his hoodie between his fingers. "Right?"

"I suppose?" Sirius made a face, as if even he was unsure. "It happened to me and I'm still confused about it, months later."

The four of them were in the Shrieking Shack, in the desolate lounge which had been somewhat cleaned. It lacked the dust on every surface, though cobwebs lingered in the corners and the windows remained boarded up. The morning sun cut through the cracks, and hit the shabby furniture. The old gouge marks from when this place had housed werewolves remained, though repairs had been made.

It smelled like the eggs and bacon Hermione had brought from the Great Hall that morning before she'd met Sirius.

"So tell us again," Ron rolled his hand from the wrist, as if to hurry the point out.

Sirius exhaled through grit teeth, as he tore his gaze off Harry. Hermione had heard the story a dozen times now, but it didn't get any clearer. She perked as if she might finally work out what had happened this time. If only she caught a new detail, or noticed something in his story.

"It was... June 1996, I believe." He looked between them, as if they'd confirm the date for him. "The uh, eighteenth."

The trio nodded in unison. They had reconvened, and Hermione had bold-faced ran through the grounds and towards Hogsmeade. She had been told by Luna where they'd stayed, and gone to meet them. TThe boys were equally hungover, but no one was sicker than Ginny who was curled up on the couch behind Sirius with a bucket beside her. She had stayed with the boys in Hogsmeade, and drank her body weight in Firewhiskey.

"My _beautiful_ bitch of a cousin popped off a spell, stunned me, and I fell through The Veil." Sirius's jovial tone froze over, as it tended to when he spoke of the thing that had swallowed him. "Didn't know how long it'd been, seconds, centuries, could've been anything... And then next thing I knew, I saw a light. I saw Lily, actually, and I thought, hell, of course she'd be the one to turn up, to tell me off for dying when I was meant to be protecting you." He laughed, but it tapered out to a bark.

"But when you followed it -- "

"It was Kitty, ah, Catherine," he corrected, a bite in his smile. "She was running past The Veil, looking for something, but she was -- " he made a vague gesture, at his chest. "Something about her, you know. It's no wonder I thought she was Lily, at a glance."

"And that happened when Harry used the Resurrection Stone?"

Sirius nodded, a wiggle to his fingers. "At my best guess."

"So the Resurrection Stone guided you back to life," Hermione pieced together, her legs crossed in front of her. "But not all of you."

Sirius shook his head, his shoulders slumped. "I was a ghost, at first. Or a poltergeist, I suppose, but I wasn't sure I was alive. I'm still not sure that I am." He hiked up the leg of his jeans, which showed off an iridescent ankle. "You'd lost me once Harry, I didn't want to rush out to find you, in case..."

"I would have been happy t'see you," Harry huffed, and nudged Sirius's leg. "Would've given me a chance to tell you off."

"Oh yes, so sorry, my mistake," he shoved Harry back and the pair laughed.

"That goblin, Hobbuck," Hermione looked at Harry, who seemed unable to look away from his godfather. "He kept saying that Sirius wasn't dead. When we were trying to get them to release your inheritance, from Sirius..."

"I knew he wasn't dead." Harry nodded, as he took a sip of his peppermint tea. "Or, I guess I hoped he wasn't..."

"And you lived with Ayers, then?"

Sirius broke into the most devious smile, as close to sin as Hermione had ever seen him get. "I _wish_." He caught himself, and laughed, loud and too much, his leg jigged on the spot. "No, no, I didn't live with her, not... No," he sighed, heavy and loud. "I went back to Grimmauld Place."

"But you still get hungry, and sleep, and all that?"

Sirius nodded, and he relaxed backward onto his hands. "I sort of feel like an ice cube that's melting, slowly, and inside is me. Like, I'm getting there, back to -- to where I used to be."

"Same," Ginny gurgled from the couch.

"Well that's your own bloody fault," Ron snorted. "I told you to stop drinking."

"Meh, meh, meh, you sound like mum." Ginny rolled, and groaned the whole way. "Kill me."

"Didn't they used to do virgin sacrifices, back in the olden times -- might keep Sirius here longer," Ron muttered, as he picked at some dirt between the floorboards.

"Then you'd have to use Hermione." Ginny hacked up something to spit in the bucket.

Ron huffed and shot Harry a dirty look, who was looking at his tea leaves.

"I appreciate the thought," Sirius began, softly. "But, I think you're just stuck with me, for good. Until I'm old and codgery, at least."

"It's strange though." Hermione said, her fingers wrapped around her teacup. "That the Resurrection Stone showed you Lily, and you came across Ayers."

Sirius tipped his head, in a way that reminded her of a confused puppy. "I mean, they're pretty similar. Could've been a coincidence, that Lily's soul just passed by The Veil."

"She doesn't look that much like my mum," Harry added, his fingers tapped at the cup. "I checked, 'cause, yeah, she kinda has the same eyes as me, I thought, but it's just her hair and eyes. And, it's not like redheads don't exist." He looked at Ron and Ginny, and smiled.

"I knew Lily, and Kitty's -- " he paused. "_Ayers_, isn't anything like her. They're both kind and brave, I guess, but isn't that most Gryffindors?"

"I don't think she's Lily," Hermione corrected, as she leaned back against an armchair. "Just something that stood out to me."

"Now," Sirius clapped his hands together which made Ginny hiss. "What's all this Horcrux business I heard so much about?"

Harry, Hermione and Ron spent the better part of their day in deep discussion with Sirius, as they explained their year abroad. He gasped at the right times and shouted when they expected him to. It was a paternal warmth she'd forgotten she enjoyed, as Sirius must have been for Harry.

Hermione remained quieter of the bunch, though she did notice how Ron slowly, gradually, warmed back up to her. He would smile at her, and even reached across to brush some hair out of her face when she finished her anecdote about the Malfoy manner; about her scar.

Ginny had managed to sit up. She was enraptured, too, as she'd only heard bits and pieces. She would also cut in, to add what had happened from her perspective, within Hogwarts.

By the end of their tale, Hermione had rested against Ron's shoulder, reminded of how fond she had been of him, once. She could sleep like this, warm and comfortable. But it wasn't the sort of embrace that made her blood quicken or her cheeks flush. Rather, it was like a comfortable sweater she'd only just rediscovered after months of warm weather.

"Glad you two worked it out," Sirius smiled.

"Hm?" Hermione shifted, to sit back up.

"You were always dancing around one another," Sirius waved a hand. "Seems you worked it out."

"Oh," Ron shook his head, and strained his throat to speak. "We're not."

"Ah," Sirius grit his teeth. "I assumed, given that Ginny and Harry... No?" He waved a finger between them. "Makes sense."

"I should be getting back to school," Hermione checked her watch, the gold one with the cartoon characters on the band. It was engraved, rather than colorful, but she hid it quickly. "I'm not meant to be here."

"I'll come with," Ginny groaned. "I'm sorry Harry."

Harry looked at Sirius, then to Hermione. "I think I'll stay here, if that's okay with you."

"Of course Harry, we'll be fine." Hermione looked at Ron and smiled. "I'll get your sister back safe."

"Oh, right," he pushed up from the floor. "I was actually gonna just, go, maybe walk around Hogsmeade, if..." He looked at Ginny. "Another time."

"I'm sorry," Ginny repeated, woozy as she leaned against Hermione.

They girls set off in the direction of the castle, while Ron went towards the inn. Hermione had been given her trenchcoat back, as Ron had grabbed it on her behalf the night before. She had it slung over her arm, while her other arm was around Ginny's midsection.

"Have you ever had a hangover?" Ginny moaned.

"I haven't," Hermione smiled, as Ginny tottered beside her.

"Don't do it, don't be like me -- let me be a -- a warning, to you."

"I hadn't any wish to follow your lead."

They continued, though there was little in the way of casual conversation. Ginny looked pale around all her edges, near green, and she didn't seem to trust herself to open her mouth. They were two-thirds of the way back before Ginny shoved her away. Hermione stumbled a few steps and watched as Ginny bent over a low wall to throw up.

"Oh, Ginny," Hermione sighed, her wand at the ready to assist her if needed.

"Walk of shame, Granger?"

Hermione felt both her eyes twitch out, as she saw Malfoy on the approach. He had Blaise and Theo either side of him, in matching black attire. "Pardon?"

"Trouncing back to campus after spending all night in Hogsmeade," he smirked, ugly and wide. "Hadn't thought you the type."

"It's my birthday," Hermione spoke, her voice quivering. "I went to get lunch with Harry and Ron."

Ginny hurled another round of bile onto the pavement but remained otherwise silent.

"Whatever you say," he rolled his eyes and shoved past her, with his replacement lackeys. As if he'd not escorted her to the party himself, and ditched her when they'd arrived.

"How quaint; that green of your jealousy matches your tie."

Draco stopped dead in his tracks, and turned, to look at her like he had all those years ago, fierce and cruel. "What's there to be jealous of? Weasley, throwing up cheap Firewhiskey, or you, sneaking off from a party with a _teacher_?"

Hermione's heart beat against her eardrums, harder and louder than she liked. "I didn't sneak off with a teacher."

The boys all laughed amongst themselves, as they exchanged knowing looks. As if they knew something she didn't.

"Your little crush on Wood is so obvious." Theo sighed, as he adjusted the way his lapels sat.

"Perfect guy to show you how to use a broomstick," Blaise snorted and shoved Draco, who laughed an empty laugh in response.

"Is that what you think?" Hermione shot back, as she took a step towards Malfoy.

"It figures," Malfoy parted his lips with his tongue, his lips quivered as he picked his approach. "That sucking up to a teacher would translate to sucking off a teacher -- "

Hermione slapped him, once, and remained otherwise motionless. The sound was heavy and hard, and his head snapped to the side.

Theo and Blaise had their wands out, and stared between Draco and Hermione.

She dared him to look at her, with her gaze fixed to the side of his face. He met her eye, bronze against silver, and she saw the glint of his ring as he pushed his hair out of his face. It was silver and emerald, caught in the afternoon light.

She willed the memories of her walk back last night to the front of her mind, where she'd hugged Oliver goodbye, of the half-there kiss on the cheek, of how happy she'd felt.

Whether he read her or not, he turned too quick and rushed off towards Hogsmeade.

* * *

Hermione laid on her bed in the girls' dorm, but left her curtains unenchanted. Instead, she listened to Emily tell Bethany all about her night with Draco, how he'd taken her back to his parents' house in Hogsmeade.

This was good, she told herself.

She was happy for Emily, who seemed happy in turn. She gushed about how they'd stayed up all night, and she flirted around the details. When the girl was brave enough, she'd mention how hard he was, or how good he was, and Hermione wanted to tear her eardrums out much like the Weasley brothers had, with those ears on a string.

This was good.

Exactly as it should be.

She had to forget about the way he'd held her hand all the way to the party, and how he'd taken her to his parents' home in Hogsmeade, and how he'd led her through the crowds. She had so many bigger, better things to worry about. Sirius was alive, and Harry and Ginny were happy, and she seemed to have found a good place with Ron, and Oliver...

Oliver was merely a friend and a teacher. Those boys had no clue what they were talking about.

She looked at the ring, the one that had been tucked back into the pocket of her trenchcoat.

She slipped it onto her finger, and willed a message from it.

_"Whoever you are -- "_

_"Leave us alone."_

She needed to know _who_ it was, who had given Ron these rings, and who had the other two. And she watched as the thread formed out of the ring. It led out of her bunk, and down to her bag. She leaned over, to open it up. Much like it had before, it was pointed at the book that she had taken off Draco, the one on giants.

She'd never checked it.

That was their thing; it had been their thing.

She picked it up and the thread faded. She looked at Emily, who had hickeys and a massive smile on her face. She waved at Hermione and wished her a happy birthday from across the room.

Hermione slunk back into her bed and opened the book. A piece of parchment fluttered out, along with her original note where she'd berated him. 

_Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy, of Slytherin prestige and Pigheaded Principles_

_For more reasons than I can explain, I would rather elope with the Giant Squid than even look in your direction. I would rather eat a Flobberworm than touch you. I would prefer to streak through Hogsmeade in January than pretend for a second that I hold you in any fondness. Please consider this your final warning, and keep this book as a reminder for what a complete and absolute prick you are and will continue to be._

_Unkind regards,_

_H.J.G._

And his response was written on ornate Malfoy stationery, which he'd no doubt spent too much money on.

_Dearest Lionheart,_

_You've looked at me thirty-seven times since you wrote this, though I hope you choose a beautiful wedding rather than eloping. You've touched me more than a few dozen times, but I can see you've continued to eat eggs on toast rather than Flobberworms._

_Furthermore, and most pertinent, I eagerly look forward to when you streak through Hogsmeade to express your fondness for me. However, I'd prefer you naked in more private circumstances. I'm a painfully jealous person, truth be told._

_Just an idea._

_Yours,_

_D.L.M._

Hermione stared at the paper, aware that it was a joke, and that he was out to rile her up further. But he'd written this... Perhaps a week ago, if not more. She'd left it too long, and no doubt he'd forgotten about it. She laid in her bed, as she stared at the paper, trying to reconcile the man behind the words with the same one who'd implied she'd gotten on her knees for a professor. Her skin crawled, and she wanted more than anything to go back to the day before, to approach everything with more care.

But instead, she laid in her bed, and cried, and only stopped when she felt the ring heat up.

_"I'm sorry."_

_"For everything."_

"Hermione," Emily sang, with a cake in one hand and a package in the other. "Happy birthday! Sorry about last night, I got a little distracted, but I have a present for you, and some cake, and -- why are you crying?"

"Oh, I was reading a book," she lied, and waved a hand over the cover of the book. It now read _Pride and Prejudice _which she doubted Emily knew. It had been the first thing she'd thought of, and it worked. "What's this?"

"Oh, Draco and I got you a present," she smiled, sweet and light, and set the package down. "I mean, he paid for it, and thought of it, but he's rich, so that's like -- why not just make him pay."

Emily sat down, as she pretended to hide the hickeys with her hand. In reality, she was making them more obvious. She fluttered her eyelashes at Hermione, and kept a smile in place. "Last night was fun, wasn't it?"

"Eh, sure," Hermione agreed, unwilling to go into all the reasons it wasn't fun.

"Never figured you'd be the kind of girl to go after a professor, but I mean, you're nineteen, it's not like you're a kid. We're barely even students," Emily added with a sigh, her legs crossed in front of her.

"Professor Wood escorted me back to ensure I arrived safely back at the dorms," Hermione said, flat and empty. She opened the elegant silver wrapping paper, which was accented with yellow and green. It was ugly, but she didn't want to say that to Emily. She'd clearly tried.

A sleek silver watch was in a blue velvet box, with a small galaxy embedded into the watch face.

"It's like your orb," Emily pointed at the orb beside Hermione's bed. "But, more specific about the stars and constellations, and the time, too, I guess." She waved a hand to make Hermione offer her wrist. She unsnapped the clunky gold watch and replaced it with the silver one. She pet Hermione's wrist, to make sure it sat right, and smiled.

"It's very nice," Hermione smiled, weakly. "I can't accept this..."

"No, no, you have to. We're friends, you, Draco and -- well, us three are friends, I think Draco finally gets it, you know, about us, because, oh my gosh, Hermione, that boy," she laughed, pretty and high. "We didn't even come back last night."

"I mean, you came but -- "

"Bethany, shut up!" But she laughed and blushed, and Hermione kept the smile on her face.

"I'll be sure to thank him." Her voice was watery. "I'm happy for you, for both of you."

"Thank you." Emily lost that edge of joy, as she looked at Hermione. "Happy birthday, Hermione." She looked at her, concerned, but didn't press the matter. Instead, she hugged her and left her with a miniature chocolate cake.

Hermione hated chocolate cake.

* * *

> _ **September 20th, 1998. Sometimes it's the things you don't say.**_

Hermione hadn't received too many presents, but she didn't expect to. Ginny gave her a hair clip with gold and rubies, which apparently could expand to hold any amount of hair. Neville gave her a little plant, which would provide a berry each day that would change flavors depending on what season it was. Luna had given her another clipping from the Daily Prophet, and a miniature version of her jeweler's headpiece, which was instead a tiny jeweler's monocle. It turned the world kaleidoscopic, and varied depending on how you angled it.

Hagrid sent her rock cake, which also could have just been a rock. The Weasleys had sent a collective card, which included a bookmark that had her name and her house embroidered into it. It could read out whatever you'd last read, to remind you exactly where you'd been. Oliver Wood had sent her a hand-drawn _**IOU One Flying Lesson**_ coupon, which she rolled her eyes at. A few letters arrived with some money or well-wishes. 

Ron and Harry had given her some perfume and the book on Magical Theory where she'd been featured. They'd also given her several books on magical myths as well as one on personal finance. She enjoyed each of them for her own reasons. She used her afternoon to read and avoided reality as she had dozens of times in the past.

It wasn't until dinner that she emerged, her hair bunched up into a bun and her book on personal finance under her arm.

The Eighth year dorms were filled, with some of her classmates at the desks while others were at the couches. The Glimmertree continued to wilt, though they were only a third of the way through autumn.

Malfoy moved in his seat beneath Emily, who was in his lap.

Hermione walked straight past him, no words, nothing.

The group laughed, a mixture of Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, and she made sure to take her time to eat. She sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table with her back to the Great Hall and spoke with First years who all seemed excited to have someone older to ask questions of. It was nice to be with a bunch of silly children, who had no bigger problems than turning an egg cup into a teacup

Hermione took it upon herself to run an impromptu Transfiguration class at the corner of the table, where several students watched her with awe in their eyes as she performed complex transfigurations and explained her work.

It was nice, as a break, and it helped distract her from her impending week of detentions with Selwyn-Snape.

That and the lessons allowed her space away from Malfoy. He was bunched up with Blaise and Theo, who were in the midst of a game of chess. She paused beside him, to shove the watch he'd given her into his hand. She didn't look at him and instead rushed to the dorms below.

She didn't want his watch. She expected him to shout at her, to call her names or ask if she was going off to see Wood or _something_.

Instead, it was just her name, _Hermione_, once. Whether it was a plead or a command, it wasn't enough.

He mustn't want to talk to her that badly.

Good. This was all very good.

Then why did it hurt?


	21. stand at detention.

> _ **September 24th, 1998. In spite of everything, everything is in spite.** _

Hermione spent the better part of her week immersed in classwork. There was no excuse to do anything otherwise. She attended each class, and participated as little as possible. No one questioned her reluctance to speak. In truth, the only people who seemed to notice were the people she least wanted to be honest with.

Ginny had stopped her teasing about Malfoy, in light of the shit he'd said on her birthday. She was busy with Quidditch, which didn't start til November, but it was important to her. She wanted to try for the Holyhead Harpies, or worst case, the Appleby Arrows. She was busy with Wood, who Hermione was also avoiding, again.

He didn't seem to mind, or care, because why would he? He was a teacher and she was a student, and they had been classmates, once. It wasn't as if anything had happened there. Even worse, when he had said hello to her on Monday, a group of girls broke into whispers. He didn't need to be told twice that it was best they not speak.

Then, there was Draco, ever-present in his shadow over her. The problem with Draco was that he'd not even tried to apologize. Draco hadn't tried to speak to her for the past week, not even in passing, not even as they sat alone in the common-room on Wednesday night, or between classes. He'd left her alone, and sat as far from her as possible. He had gone back to his alabaster perfection, with a fresh haircut and no more undereye bags.

But each night she finished detention with Selwyn-Snape, he'd be in the common-room. No matter the time, he was there, with a book on his lap and his hand pressed against his temple. When she'd come in, he'd not look up, but he would start to pack up. As if he knew she was safe, and he could go back to sleep.

Or, more likely, as if she'd interrupted his alone time.

Monday through Wednesday had seen her arrive back to the dorm around nine in the evening, and she'd go straight to sleep. The next day she'd go through the routine of classes, and march down to the dungeons to be met with a silent Snape.

The detentions themselves had been empty, no words, no real punishment. He didn't even give her a speech on being a know-it-all, or berate her. It was just Snape, disguised with blonde hair and a face too handsome for him, and her with some homework. If there was a purpose behind all this, she failed to find it.

He was bent over some essays, which he'd sneer or scoff at in equal measure.

"Professor," Hermione said, soft and distant.

"There's no talking, Ms. Granger."

"I want to know, what's the point," she waved a hand. "Of all this."

"All.. What?" He let the paper flutter down, and took a deep sip from a flask he'd keep in the breast pocket of his robes. He didn't react to the tang, but she had to guess it stung. Polyjuice Potion tended to sting.

"You putting me in detention for a week," she twiddled her quill, as she met his eye.

"Because you spoke back to me," he stated, simply, his brow arched. "Nevermind the fact you disobeyed instructions and went out to Hogsmeade not once, but _twice_ in the period of twenty-four hours."

Hermione's lashes fluttered, as she walked a tightrope with him now. "Professor Ayers told us to consider not what has happened, but why it happened. What the motivations were, and the reasons that people do what they do. In a way, Professor Proudfoot said the same... Though she was more angled towards questioning what you're told, and why." She looked down, at her essay about the Ministry corruption during 19th Century Britain. "I wanted to understand why you'd fake your own death, only to return to a near-identical life."

He worked his bronze engagement ring in circles, and the diamond flashed at each rotation. "You know nothing of me if you think Selwyn's life resembles my own in any way."

"The only difference I can see is that he was engaged to Professor Ayers." Hermione said, direct and emotionless. "Because she's linked to Lily, somehow, isn't she."

A smile flinched its way across his lips, as he leaned onto his forearms and interlaced his fingers. "I'm beginning to wonder if you don't enjoy being in detention, Ms. Granger."

"It's been the highlight of my week," she said, deadpan.

"However the --_ romantic_ alignment of Selwyn had no bearing on the decision to have him act as a surrogate, in these desperate times."

"Ayers is Lily's Amourdonne, for Harry, isn't she. She doesn't even know it, I don't think, but anyone with half a brain can see that," Hermione stated, clearer and harsher than she meant. "So you're either out to protect her, or kill her -- "

"Enough," Snape scratched at his brow, his clean white teeth bared. She had expected them to be crooked and yellow, as they had been, before. "You have no idea what you're talking about, if you think I could have the capacity to kill a fellow teacher."

"You killed Dumbledore," Hermione stated, flat voiced. "Forgive me if it's not a stretch of the imagination."

Snape _laughed_, of all things, and his eyes flashed black in the dark. "I always wondered if Gryffindor was a wise choice of house for you, but I've never met someone who so exemplified the arrogance and ill-mannered cruelty that the house is based upon." He exhaled, lowly, and carded his fingers through the blonde locks that had come loose.

"So she doesn't know that she's the Amourdonne," Hermione repeated, unaffected by his insult. "And I'd be willing to wager that you didn't make it known that you were someone, pretending to be her fiance -- did you? She just had to work it out for herself. You were going to go on, pretending to be her fiance." She rolled her shoulders, her nose wrinkled.

This melted the smirk straight off his face, as he stood up from his desk. He closed the gap between them with a few short, sharp strides. He snatched her Charms essay out from in front of her, as if he were about to read it. She had been proofreading it, alongside her History of Magic essay. It had been about cleaning charms and their adverse effects on bacteria. "I stand by my assessment in class, Ms. Granger," he began, as the essay went up in flames. The same essay she'd worked on since Tuesday, the same one that was due tomorrow morning. "Your people skills are your downfall."

"You can't do that," Hermione snapped, as she shoved herself up from her desk.

Snape raised a brow. He was still taller than her, though Grimward cut a figure more similar to Lucius. He roved her face with a piercing look, as realization dawned. "I encourage you to focus on the task that McGonagall set you weeks ago, instead of busying yourself with other people who don't need your perspective."

Hermione searched his face, lost for a moment, as she saw Draco in the slant of his lips and the angle of his eyebrow. She blushed angry, awful red and sat back down. She had forgotten about Draco and his dreams. It hadn't really seemed that important, as she stared at her hands.

"It was a mistake to allow you any place within the Order. You're a child," he snapped. "A liability to everyone, given how much of your heart you carry on your sleeve."

"Then teach me."

His eyebrows jumped high on his forehead, as his tirade was cut short. "I beg your pardon?"

"You taught Harry Occulmency, didn't you?" Hermione glowered up at him, her arms crossed over her chest. "If you're so desperately concerned about my need to confess everything I know, teach me Occlumency, or shut up."

"Detention, again, all next week," he waved a hand, and a few cabinets slammed open.

"Good," Hermione collected her things, which she packed into her bag. "You can use that time to teach me Occlumency."

Snape's eyes lit up in a way she'd known possible; she expected them to be black, but they were deep blue and clear. The desk was no longer between them. He glared down at her, angled in her space, too much like a Malfoy and too little like a friend. His lips parted, as he fought back whatever insults were at the front of his mind. Instead, he shot her a confused look and shook off the train of thought. "You have no hope of learning Occlumency. You scream all your thoughts, good or bad, and it's sickening."

Hermione shot looks around the room, terrified of whatever he'd gleaned from her. "Well, if you can't teach me, then I'll have Draco's mother do it. He offered."

And she took her leave, as she already had a full week of detentions again next week. It wasn't like he could do much to her, save for making her clean cauldrons or write lines. She was so incredibly tired, and she cared so very little. If he, like everyone else, was so concerned about her inability to mind her emotions and keep secrets, then she could do something about it.

When she arrived back in the common room, she saw Draco. He met her eye and closed his book, to head to bed without a word.

"Draco," she called through the quiet.

He stopped, but didn't turn.

"Have you been waiting for me every night?"

He turned, the moonlight overhead cast right white light onto his hair and deep shadows across his face. He was unreadable across the dorm. "It's a long walk, from the castle."

And he vanished down into the dark, and she couldn't help but smile.

* * *

> _ **September 25th, 1998. Ferverent work doesn't mean much.**_

Hermione managed to scrape together her Charms essay, based on what she could recall. She was curled up in the Great Hall, her back to the rest of the hall and her head bowed low. She had arrived in here at around six in the morning, and had managed a good eight hours of sleep. At least Snape hadn't kept her too late, though she was also thankful he'd not hexed her to death on her way out.

Selwyn avoided her eye as he entered for breakfast, but she had Double Potions later. There was little hope in avoiding him. He did have a smirk on his face, as he picked through her brain. She figured out he'd been reading her, all those detentions. He'd been scouring her brain for anything important, and she'd been a dolt and not realized it sooner.

Which was worse when she considered the occasional thought about Malfoy's hands or lips that would fill the empty time between awake and asleep.

Hermione doubled down on her Charms essay, as she felt a hand clap onto her shoulder. It drew back before it lingered for too long, but that didn't stop her heart from racing out of her chest.

"Hermione!" Wood cackled. "Are you ever not working?"

"I just, love essays," she said, blearily. She turned to look up at him, at his handsome features that were rough where Draco was sleek. He had stubble and scruff, with outrageously bushy eyebrows and a twinkle in his eye.

"Don't forget to eat," he loosely pointed to the food that had appeared in front of her, that she'd failed to notice. "I'm sure Flickwick wouldn't want you to pass out halfway through your lessons."

Hermione's gaze glazed over as she saw Draco and Emily at the Slytherin table, across the hall. He was angled away, in talks with some Seventh-year boy with an unfortunate haircut. Emily looked miserable, as she stabbed eggs onto her fork. 

She laughed and waved, as Wood said something as he walked away. She didn't hear him, and she suspected it didn't matter too much. Instead, she rounded off her Charms essay. It'd be a passing grade at least. She also made sure to remember to leave any real essays or work behind, so as to avoid having Snape set them on fire if he threw a hissy fit.

She thought this with extra venom, as she stared straight at Selwyn.

He scowled.

_Good. _Hermione smiled, peachy pink over her cheeks. _That's what you get for being a creep_.

* * *

"I think it's cute," Ginny smiled, as Hermione sat beneath a droopy oak tree. They had snatched some sandwiches from the table at lunch and decided to make use of these final warm days before winter began to take hold. She was far better now, given her hangover had happened a week ago.

She had received a detention from McGonagall, as had most of the Seventh years who'd gotten drunk during their Hogsmeade trip. Flickwick and Wood feigned ignorance as if they'd not been buying rounds. No one really seemed to mind or care, but some of the Seventh years were sixteen.

"I don't think implying I gave a -- " Hermione dropped her voice, so as to avoid furthering the things he'd said. "A blowjob to -- you know! It's -- "

"He's dumb and jealous," Ginny scratched at her neck, at the week-old hickey Harry had left her with. She hadn't bothered to hide it, and no one had made a comment. She'd gotten a hickey from The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, and she could clock them so hard they'd soon be The-One-Who-Died-Painfully.

"As if that's an excuse."

"Think of it this way," Ginny pointed at Hermione. "He was thinking about you doing that." Ginny tongued her teeth, as she fought back a laugh.

Hermione wanted to argue with that, but she couldn't. She felt bad, for slapping him, but he'd been a prick. She'd have done far worse, had it been anyone else... And given how he hounded her each night, he didn't seem to mind too much. Or if he did, he had gotten past it. Hermione was knitting a small sweater that was designed for a cat. She donated them to a shelter in Hogsmeade, for the animals that had been left behind by students who'd passed away in the war.

"Gossip's gossip. I doubt Ron meant to start stuff -- still can't believe he punched Wood, either."

Hermione stabbed herself in the palm with a knitting needle, though not hard enough to bleed. 

"Wait, you heard that, right? You didn't hear?" Ginny gasped. "Seriously? I figured you knew!"

"Please," Hermione said, level and soft. "Just tell me, I'm about three seconds away from screaming."

"I mean, yeah, so, Wood walked you back to the castle I guess. He's a Professor, and I guess he was worried 'cause you were out on your own," Ginny took a deep breath, unsure if this was the story to tell. "But Ron went out after you two, with your coat, and he saw you go off with Wood. So he just kinda... Stayed at the Inn, and was pacing, and raving, and when Wood got back," Ginny licked her lips apart. "Well, he called Wood a creep for going after a student, and Wood said he was just being responsible."

"Which he was," Hermione agreed, rolling her hand. 

"Well, Ron said, oh, is that what you call responsible, trying to shag a student, and then Wood -- well, he said that Ron was such a shitty Keeper, he couldn't even catch a girl if she threw herself at him."

Hermione threw her knitting down, her mouth shot wide open, her hands raised, just unable to process this. "Why didn't you _tell_ me all this!"

"I figured you got told!"

"I wasn't there, how would I know," Hermione babbled, her fingers raked across her scalp. She had the hair clip that Ginny had bought her, that helped to gather her hair down into a smaller bun than would be otherwise possible. She fidgeted with it, her fingers nervously through the curls. "That's awful."

"It was pretty, um -- Ron kinda shouted, about how Wood was going after you."

"Oh my God," Hermione was stuck between laughter and screaming, as she tore grass around where she sat. 

Ginny shrugged as if to say _what can you do?_

"I'm going to kill him!"

"See, I didn't bring it up, since you have Emily, and she's such a gossip." Ginny rested against the oak tree, her Transfiguration essay on her knee. She was tweaking spelling, with Hermione's help.

"You'd think," Hermione paused. "But she was off with Draco."

Ginny made a soft '_oh_' sound with her mouth.

* * *

Double Potions was much the same misery as it was each week, with the first two hours being purely theoretical. Rather than sit on opposite sides of the room, Draco waited for Hermione to sit down first and took the seat beside her without hesitation. She ignored how he shoved a Slytherin boy away to do so, and the boy flipped him off without hesitation.

She pulled out her parchment, quills and set to work on transcribing a list of what ingredients she knew she was running low on. Their Potion work had been far more intensive than what had been listed on their school supplies. It made sense, given that Hermione and Draco were given more intense potion work, and work that was applicable to the school at large. For example, they were entrusted to help Madame Pomfrey restock her supply of general cure-all tonics. These would combat basic ailments, such as a flu or a stomach bug.

Although simple in how they sounded, they were so very important to get right. One minor issue in the brewing, and you could kill someone.

Suffice to say, the pressure was on.

The Seventh years worked on some bubble potion that looked pretty but had no practical application, not unless you wanted to decorate a bathtub. The bubbles were slippery and would remain long after the potion was splashed somewhere. She had no clue why they were given that potion to work on; how was that _difficult?_

"I'm sorry for the weekend," Draco spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "For what I said."

"I'm sorry for slapping you," she paused, her brow dropped to narrow her eyes. "Though you deserved it."

Draco smiled, and he was back to being handsome. He looked better than he had in a long while, as his haircut had grown in and he looked like he'd been in the sun a little. There were a few freckles tucked just beneath his jaw, where it met his ear.

He worked through the list of ingredients for the medical elixirs and prepared her portions along with his. She couldn't argue with him, as she didn't have some of the things that were mentioned on the list. On top of that, he was so much faster with a knife than she was. It was a little eerie, but then again, he'd spent so much time around Snape.

She watched, with the same demeanor as a scorned kitten, as he would offer each ingredient to her. He'd meet her eye, and smile a tight-lipped smile.

"It's nice, you and Emily." She kept her tone chilled, distant, as she looked up at him.

"We're not dating."

"Oh," Hermione frowned. "She seemed to think you were."

Draco shot her a confused look, as he visibly searched for a reason as to why she'd think that.

"Last Friday," she said as if to jog his memory. "She was very, um, descriptive."

Draco got halfway through asking what she meant before blood slammed to the surface of his skin. He didn't try to hide the blush, and he kept eye contact with her. He did laugh, once, breathy, as he shook his head. "Well, that's not _dating_, now is it."

Draco and Hermione watched as Selwyn glided by, intense blue eyes trained on each of them for a few seconds each, and then he resumed his patrol of the younger students. He trusted them to be able to execute their potions, especially since Draco was beyond adept with the concept of potioneering. She admired that about him, even as he turned beet red and chewed at his lip.

He kept up the deft knife work, as he slid some lemongrass to her, along with aloe juice. She stared at his ring, the one with silver and an emerald inlaid into it, the one that had snake tongues wrapped around it.

"Your family's more known for dragons, aren't they?"

"Hm?"

"Your family," she pointed, loosely, and took his hand into hers. He met this gesture eagerly and tried to disguise a smug smirk as she interlocked her fingers with his. And then she clamped down, hard, and willed a message.

_"H.J.G."_

She yanked the ring off his finger as she pulled away. He realized too late what she was out to prove, and she saw the terror in his eyes.

"Hermione -- "

She stared at the band, the letters burned into the inside, her initials on his ring. She stared at him, her eyes latched onto his.

And things blurred.

More than she realized was possible.


	22. take note.

> _ **September 25th, 1998. At least that seems to be the date...** _

Hermione had used a Pensieve once, and this felt similar.

Rather than being detached from what she saw, she was instead embedded in the memories. She could see Draco, terrified, standing still, as she rushed backward through his memories. Even as the images shifted, he acted as a visual anchor, determined and terrified all in one.

It wasn't a choice on her part, per se, not consciously.

It could have been the fumes from their potions if they'd made a mistake, or perhaps this was a horrible dream.

The first distinct memory that emerged was that of Emily, red in the face and naked from the waist up. It was that little house, the one where Draco had pinched her arse as he pushed her through the trapdoor, the one he'd escorted her out of and into Hogsmeade. She blinked back at the fight of Emily, of _too much _ Emily, and sensed the rigid emptiness of it all.

She shoved past that, not eager to see how it ended, but that only opened up bigger problems.

As she tried to get _out_, she went further in.

Through the Battle of Hogwarts.

At first she assumed that distant emotionless feeling was how this felt, but instead, she was wracked with grief as she walked through the corpses of fallen friends and foes.

She rushed through meetings with Snape, and Selwyn. She saw Snape and Selwyn, side by side, as Snape shoved the limp man into a rickety bed. She saw Draco's mother in tears, as she begged with his father to let something go, let it go, and she stumbled in the silk of her dress, and Draco was so, so angry, but she couldn't latch onto that, instead she fell backward like a rollercoaster all over again, through the mess at Hogwarts, through Crucio flashes, Voldemort's face, broken limbs, sobbing on the bathroom floor of an extravagant mansion, green flashes, dead bodies, dead teachers, so much death, mixed into the memories, nonsequential, ever-present.

When Draco had done this to her, he'd been methodical, in part. Hermione was chasing strings in the wind, latching to whatever thought led to whatever memory. She went between the present and the past in rapid succession, only denoted in how Draco looked; younger, older, varying.

She picked out a moment where Selwyn had his soul sucked out by a Dementor, and a bright white flash, and then the memories frozen like a diorama. She was back in the Malfoy's exquisite drawing-room at the Malfoy manor. But it wasn't as Hermione remembered it. Instead, it was torn to pieces, broken furniture, broken windows, everything was broken, by Bellatrix, by Draco, a fight amongst the Malfoys, played in reverse, and then the chandelier ascended and the scene played in reverse -- she saw herself, on the floor, bleeding from her arm.

She saw Draco crying, openly, and she remembered where she was. The classroom, potions, none of this was real, none of it. She reached up to scrub her face with her hand, which she'd forgotten had the ring in it.

The high _tink_ of the metal ring against stonework sounded, a real sound, not one warped by memories.

And the misty diorama shattered.

The potion beside them was bubbling, more than was needed, and Draco shook himself free. He turned to fix the potion, red all along his neck, to his ears, and in tears.

Hermione stared at Draco, then at Selwyn who merely arched a brow at her.

She scrabbled to pick up the ring, but slipped it onto the table, back to Draco. He snatched it up and put it back on, wordless.

She checked her clunky gold watch, and at a guess, it'd been thirty seconds. No time had passed, and the rest of the class was still at worse. They all appeared to be on the same step, too... She sighed in relief, terrified of all the time they could have lost if she'd continued further back. What would it have taken to break the spell, if not for her own trauma played in front of her? Twice that had saved her now, and she hated it all the more for it.

A few boys nearby were laughing and pointing, and Hermione dimly realized it was about Draco. He swiped at his face, repeatedly, but didn't deign to look at the boys. Instead, he sobbed silently, his throat strained as he tried to keep quiet.

Hermione jinxed the bottom of the boys' cauldron, so their bubbly liquid gushed around their ankles, and they set about the room, sliding and slipping. Chaos ensued from there, as each boy tripped and slipped, which upended another cauldron, and the effect spiraled out from there.

The class stood in the aftermath of broken glass and overturned cauldrons, a mixture of giggly and nervous. One girl couldn't stand up, and had to sit on one of the tables.

Hermione pointedly avoided eye contact with Selwyn, and refused to take the blame.

Instead, Hermione glared at Selwyn's hand, where he had the bronze ring with diamonds, which wasn't ornate in any way but had sheaves of wheat inlaid.

_Hufflepuff._

Selwyn shoved his hands into his elbows and strutted through the spilled potions with a look of contempt. He glared Hermione down, but she didn't give him the satisfaction.

She was easy to read, wasn't she? That's what he'd said.

So let him read.

Given the disrepair of the classroom, they were dismissed early. It was near the end of the Seventh year's period anyway, and there was no chance that Hermione and Draco could work in those conditions. It was nice to be out early on a Friday for once, though she imagined there'd be a class to make up for the lost time.

It was around dinner time, but neither Draco nor Hermione headed towards the Great Hall. Neither said as much, but their pace matched up, as did their direction. She expected him to shout her down, for how she'd pried, but he looked guiltier than she felt.

"When you used Legilimens, first week," Hermione spoke, her voice shaky. "It was the ring, wasn't it."

Draco nodded once. She almost missed it, given the way he walked with his head down.

"And Snape gave Ron the rings, didn't he."

Another nod and his posture crumpled.

"_Why?_"

"You and Ron were the most likely to slip up, or say something stupid, by owl," he swallowed hard. "He figured if he gave you a way to communicate, you'd be less inclined to send owls."

"And it also gave him a way to monitor our messages. Which is how he knew I'd gone to Hogsmeade over the weekend." Hermione pieced together her logic, as well as the time when she'd approached him about the ring. Before she had known it was Snape in Selwyn's skin, and before she'd known it had been his plan.

No wonder he'd not been surprised, and he'd known exactly what she'd think to ask when she'd approached him with the ring first week.

_Git._

"I'm sorry," Draco said, exhausted.

"How many of those messages did you send?"

Most of the messages had been sweet and simple, like 'have a good day' or 'hope you're well'. Ron hadn't mentioned the ring much, and she couldn't tell now if she'd been receiving sweet messages from _Snape_ of all people.

"How many, Draco?" Hermione repeated, stern.

"A few," he laughed, softly. "The Library one, for sure. I could see your face poking out from that book, so could McGonagall and Selwyn, but -- " he grinned, red-eyed and miserable.

"Any others?"

"A few," he repeated, defeated in his tone and posture.

Hermione wracked her brain, as she tried to remember the messages that had been exchanged.

_You first,_ when she'd said to 'be safe'.

_I'm sorry._

_For everything_.

_Love you._

They continued in amicable silence, as Hermione tried not to remember the sight of Emily, naked and across his lap. She dug her nails into her palms, as she tried to piece together the why of it all, why the rings had been given to her and Ron, and why it mattered.

What had they expected for her to say, or for Ron to say?

Did Ron know?

"You said on the train that you believe in forgiveness if someone is truly sorry." Draco stopped, in the middle of the dark, the moon high above them. Hermione resented Divination all over again; the moon was a waxing crescent, on the cusp of a first quarter. That set them between hopes, wishes, and intentions.

It was ideal for one to make their desires known, and to put forward their future plans.

"I still believe that," Hermione pushed her thick locks out of her face, and tried to ignore the phases of the moon. Of all the times to have Astronomy rile her up and for facts to be more of an inconvenience than a help... "It was the ring."

He worked the ring off his finger. He pushed it into her palm and stared her down. He kept her hand between his, and his gaze locked to hers.

This was as close to mind reading as one could get, she'd wager. The thoughts that echoed through her head now were his, but they weren't anything as traumatic as before. It was much like he'd decided to tell her a story, play by play, as he gave her the memories like a gift.

At first it was difficult to pick out what he was showing her. But then the Hogsmeade came into sharp relief.

Unlike the memories she'd chased and coerced, this one was like watching a movie. She could see it like it was real again, if a little painterly around the edges, where his memory would naturally lapse. And then she spotted him, in his black suit, and her, in the sweet pink dress. She had her hair twirled back and the faintest hints of lip gloss and mascara, enough to suggest she'd taken her time to get ready. They looked normal, in spite of the surreal nature of seeing herself from the outside. There was a glow to her cheeks and a light in her eyes, neither of which she'd think to define herself by.

But this was his memory, after all.

He was with her, outside, as she laughed at the couple on the broomstick above. They walked together, and his gaze was stuck to her, even as she watched several children run past while their friend rode a toy broomstick. He didn't stop looking at her the whole way, and she had to wonder why she'd missed that.

How could she miss that?

But then the Three Broomsticks came into view, and she saw him open the door for her. She went inside, as did he... But then she vanished, absorbed by a wave of friendly faces. They looked far less friendly now, but Draco endured it, a polite smile broke through his otherwise distant demeanor. He kept his gaze on her, stuck to the girl who was far prettier than she really was. But then Ron had dipped her and cuddled closer, and kissed her.

It looked so much seedier from his perspective. A few Gryffindors moved into view, as they shoved him out into the street. They spat slurs and insults alike, though Draco seemed unaffected.

As if he'd been expecting it.

The last she saw of herself was the confused bob of her mane, as she had looked for him, to offer him a drink. But the door slammed shut before she'd said his name. She hadn't known he'd been kicked out, she assumed he'd be back.

But the memories persisted.

Draco was outside, with Pansy and Blaise. They giggled as a group, huddled in the chilly autumn evening.

_"Lifetime ban for you too, huh? So much for house unity!" _Pansy spoke, but it sounded like she was underwater. _"Figures, you did kinda fuck over the owner for a long while, Drakey-cakes."_

Emily came outside, as Hermione should have done, and then the memories flashed, rapid-fire smoking, laughing, jokes that didn't seem to matter, but Emily, ever-present, on his arm, eager to please. She was always like that, it was just how she got about Draco. Hermione didn't hate her, or blame her. She had every reason to like the boy, as he smiled down at her and put an arm around her shoulders.

Then time stopped, and Hermione came out in tears, and Draco moved to approach her. Emily yanked him back, kissed him deeply and her hand slid elsewhere. By the time he'd sobered to what was going on, she was gone, and Ron was outside with her coat in hand.

_"Fucking Wood!"_

Hermione snapped back to reality, as Draco plucked the ring out of her hand. He hovered with it, unsure whether to leave it with her or to hand it over.

"What was all that?" Hermione stared up at him, unsure what he'd hoped to achieve.

"A perspective," he tipped his head to better meet her eye.

"As if that justifies what you said about Wood and I, to make your friends laugh."

"I already apologized for that," he chewed on nothing, and looked to the stars, then back to her.

"Yes, well, that's a very fun _trick_, but these rings are dangerous."

"I haven't any use for it," he said, in a small voice. "But the messages are..." He trailed off, as he looked up at the shimmering cracks in the castle.

"We can't keep them," Hermione frowned. "Not if they can do _that_."

"I don't need the ring to do what I do." Draco slipped it back on and flexed his hand. "The ring just makes it easier, especially for those who have no skill. I hadn't even realized it could amplify _Legilimens_, not at first."

Hermione looked up at him, confused, but she shook out her hair and her thoughts. It was chilly out on the grounds, and the grass was crunchy and wet beneath her feet. She moved towards the dorms, her hair in motion like a great cloud around her head. He rushed around her, to stand in front of her, but with no words.

"I am sorry," he repeated as if it'd not been made clear before. "Just, sorry, for the ring, for lying -- "

Hermione tugged him closer, to give him a hug.

It wasn't the kiss that they always had in Muggle movies, with fireworks and a flowing dress. She would argue he needed a hug more right now, and she didn't exactly want to stop him from speaking with a kiss.

And she didn't want to kiss him.

Obviously.

Ridiculous.

Why would she want to do that?

Hermione felt her brain fog around the edges, but for once, it was the coolness he exudes where she expected warmth. She couldn't breathe at first, afraid she'd made a mistake. But he relaxed after a long moment and wrapped his arms around her. Somehow, that was worse. She could handle him when he was angry, or when she was, but they'd never hugged before.

"I am really sorry that I slapped you," Hermione mumbled into the expensive cloth of his shirt. It was so soft, she wanted to keep it. "On the weekend."

"I might've enjoyed that." His voice was a purr, and she hated that, too.

Hermione curled into his chest and snorted with laughter. This was strange, wasn't it? She expected him to shove her away, or to step back, but he kept her close. He didn't seem to know where to put his hands, however, as he rested on her lower back and cradled the back of her head. He traced her curls with deft fingers and didn't fight against the curls. He seemed amused by them and curled them around his fingers, enamored.

"You're like Medusa, you know."

"Ugly to the point of turning men to stone?" Hermione drew back, to smirk up at him.

"She was never ugly; she was considered quite beautiful. Hence the whole _Poisodeon_ thing," Draco shook his head, a half-mast smile as he looked down at her. "I meant more that you were wronged, in the worst ways, and you found a way to become lethal with your gaze alone."

_Pretty words, Malfoy._ How often had he twisted Greek mythology to suit his needs, wrapped around his tongue and his fingers, the things she'd wonder about in secret. She narrowed her eyes up at him, through the moonlight and the myths. "Ooh, I'm so excited to be beheaded so Pegasus can jump out of my bloody stump of a neck -- "

"Granger," Draco laughed, loud and bright, and she was glad to see the tragedy finally shaken from his eyes. "Don't forget Chrysaor."

"Oh, what did he ever do for anyone?"

"With an attitude like that, you'd be an exceptional mother."

Hermione laughed and laughed, and she blamed that for why she'd not heard the approach through crunchy, wet grass.

"You -- You _prick_, Snake!"

The grounds swam back into Hermione's vision, as she saw Emily clutching her copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ to the side. She was shaking, the book on fire within her grasp. In her other hand were several slips of parchment, one of which glimmered silver in the moonlight. The ornate Malfoy "M" was stamped on the corner, matched with silver ink for Draco's initials.

"You're flirting with her and fucking me! I thought you cared about me!" Emily threw the book at him. Hermione had stepped back, and he managed to snatch the book out of the air.

Damn Seeker reflexes.

The book was singed and he'd folded several pages by mistake when he grabbed it.

He looked at the book, confused. He looked between Hermione and Emily, as if he had missed the point. Recognition didn't settle in for Draco until he flipped it open, and he looked back to Emily. But rather than break into apologies or platitudes, he remained unmoved.

"So?" Emily frowned, as she crossed her arms. "What do you have to say?"

"Give me the notes, Emily." He put his hand out towards Emily, to take the notes he'd exchanged with Hermione.

"No! I'm sick of you ignoring me, and then chasing me, and doing it all over again. I love you, Draco! I always have. I'm always there for you, and I really did think you cared about me. I gave you _everything_, and it's still not enough -- " She swallowed, rough and hard, tears down her cheeks. "I'm telling your parents that you're trying to shag a Muggleborn. I'm sure they'd love that."

"Tell them," Draco shrugged, complicit. "I'm sure it'd give them a laugh."

Emily hadn't looked at Hermione yet, as if she didn't trust herself. "I'll do it!"

"Please do," Draco spoke, smooth and slow. "But I don't think it'll do much, Puff."

"Don't call me that!" Her short bob seemed to puff out with magic, as her natural curls burst through the straight ends.

Hermione hated this, start to finish. She felt bad for Emily and bad for Draco, and there was no winner here. The girl had dug through Hermione's belongings, she surmised. She should have hidden that damn book better. This was her fault.

"You can tell my parents whatever you like." Draco continued, his voice flat and his expression bored. "Doesn't mean they'll care enough to listen to you."

"Well, they will, because they want you to marry a full-blooded witch, and I'm Pure-blooded, and she's -- " Emily paused, her eyes wider as she realized what she'd said. "No offense, Hermione, but the Malfoys, they're all about what you can bring to a marriage -- "

"Do you really think your_ family_ would bring anything to them? Your parents are cowards who bowed out of the war entirely, and refused to help them throughout." He shook his head, as he stepped towards Emily. "They extend invitations to _you_ out of pity, because you're my friend."

"Friend!?" Emily shot back, her makeup melted down her cheeks. "After everything, after everything I've done for you, and you can stand there, and say we're just _friends_?"

"Are we not?" Draco looked confused, comically so, as he looked to Hermione and then back to Emily.

"Oh forget it. See if I ever do you a favor again." Emily sniffed, as she approached Draco to shove him hard in the chest. "You'll come crawling back when you get bored, mark my damn words."

"Yes, your limp-wristed hand jobs will be sorely missed."

Hermione audibly gasped, which was accented by the crunch of Draco's nose. Hermione had been waiting for it, so it came as no surprise when Emily shot out to punch Draco square in the face. She didn't blame Emily, though she didn't want to pick sides in all this. She stood on the sidelines, like a child who didn't want to get between their parents as they fought.

"Absolutely fuck yourself, Malfoy," she tossed the papers into the air and they burst into fireworks, which spelled out a few curse words. Hermione tried not to look impressed by that.

"Give it a few days," Draco groaned, from where he'd fallen to. "She'll be hounding me again."

"That was awful," Hermione said, soft and pained.

Draco shook his head and spat out some blood, which marked the green grass red in the residual flares of light. "She usually sets me on fire, too. That was rather tame for her."

"I didn't think she'd care about blood," Hermione mumbled, stunned by the display still.

"She doesn't, not unless it stands to benefit her," Draco looked Hermione over once, as he brushed grass off himself. He tested his nose, left and right, before he set his hands on his hips. "She thinks my parents care, and she wants any excuse to get at our money. She'd deny it, but she's transparent like that."

"They do care, don't they?"

"About blood?" Draco made a face, as if unsure how to respond. "It's late, Hermione," he waved a hand at her, to hurry her towards the dorms.

And she followed his lead, as she did in potions because she had nowhere else to be.

Despite the countless questions she had, she said nothing. She nervously twirled the ring around her finger and kept quiet. She tried to forget about the hug, however friendly it had been.

They split off for their respective dorms, with little in the way of a farewell. She did snatch the book off of him before the fork parted, as she'd not written a note back, and the pages were burned.

She could ask Professor Ayers to repair it, and she decided it was worth the effort. They could continue their game, in notes, and -- 

And what was she doing?

As Hermione entered the dorm, she saw Emily on her bunk, blank-faced as she stared at the ceiling.

"Are you okay, Emily?"

"Yeah," she said, hollow in her voice and her expression. "I didn't mean to shout. You didn't even do anything. It's him. He likes a chase."

Hermione went over to her bed, and she took a seat. "Why'd you go through my things?"

"I saw his stationery," she winced. "I shouldn't have looked, and I fucked myself over, and now he probably hates me."

"Why do you like him, Emily?" Hermione frowned at her, and the girl sat up, slowly. It was just the two of them, as everyone else must have been at dinner.

"He's handsome, and rich, and he's got good manners," Emily listed off, as she tapped a finger with each point. "He's protective and he cares, I know he cares, but he's just been a little off, because of the war, and if I can just -- "

"No." Hermione cut her off and waved her hands. "Don't do that to yourself."

Emily stared at Hermione, her bottom lip pouted outward.

"Whatever I just saw between you, that was _bad_. Not cute, not banter, that was _awful_." Hermione licked her lips apart, as she felt her hypocrisy bubble up. "You've given him enough, Emily. You've given him _everything_. If he truly likes you, _loves you_, he'll give you things back without being asked. You shouldn't have to make excuses for him, or force him to chase you, or any of that."

"But he likes a chase -- "

"At some point, you have to stop running." Hermione snapped, her hands beneath her thighs. "See if he's happy to stay with you, side by side. No chasing, no games, no tricks, just together."

Emily looked at her magazine, the _Witches Weekly_ that she received each week. "Is that how you got him to like you?"

"Go to sleep, Emily." Hermione changed into pajamas and a thick terrycloth robe. She made a trip up to the basket, to get two sandwiches, and returned to Emily's curtains drawn. She placed one sandwich beside Emily's bed and set herself up in her own bed.

The quiet of the dorm allowed her to reflect on all the memories that had run through her mind. She also paused to consider how Draco had lathered her in sweet words and compliments, only to drop the facade and tear apart a girl he'd slept with not even a week prior. They were close, and they were friends. Part of her had to wonder if they mirrored herself and Ron, in that they just amplified the worst of one another, and enabled each other to do their worst. She had to shove all that aside, as she pulled off the ring and examined the sapphires.

Or was that simply how Draco dealt with girls, once he'd gotten what he wanted out of them?

Hermione bent over her diary, to note down about the rings. She didn't know what Ron's could do, and she'd have to devise a way to steal Selwyn's ring. Or, Snape's. It was much of a muchness, which name she called him. She just had to remember to _say_ Selwyn.

_ **Founder Rings: A Theory** _

_Four rings, wrought to provide instantaneous communication to the other bearers. Messages can be approximately thirty characters at most, though the longer the message, the longer it takes to transmit(?)._

_Ravenclaw's ring, which could seek out the book you needed most. (Owned by H.J.G.)_

_Slytherin's ring, which could allow you insight into the steeliest of minds. (Owned by D.L.M.)_

_Hufflepuff's ring...? <strike>Food-based?</strike> Location-based? Bronze ring and diamonds (possibly)._

_Gryffindor's ring...? <strike>Occlumens...?</strike> Swords or defensive magic? Rubies (technically red sapphires) and gold. (Owned by R.B.W.)_

_Why do they exist? Who made them? (Probably Ravenclaw.)_

Ravenclaw.

Peeves.

Hermione snapped up, to a sitting position.

The Grey Lady had been crying about a missing ring -- Hermione had assumed she'd meant the Horcrux, Voldemort's ring, but she looked at the silver hoop now wrapped around her ring finger. Perhaps it had been a coincidence, or something Peeves had said with no real meaning, but she worried her ring in circles, round and round, her thumbnail dug into the gem's edges.

The ring emitted heat, as it did whenever it sent a message. She tugged it off her, finger, to see what it said.

_"Come up."_


	23. legacy of legilimency.

> _ **September 25th, 1998. It's too late to make such a decision.** _

Hermione slipped out of bed, her dorm in shadows. Her notes and theories had taken up a large portion of her evening, and the girls were either asleep or absent. Emily and Bethany had their curtains drawn, while Pansy and Daphne had left their curtains open. Their beds were empty, too, and she presumed they'd gone to Hogsmeade.

The sandwich she'd left for Emily was gone.

Hermione pulled on her bathrobe, as she couldn't be bothered to change and change back. It was senseless, and she wasn't going to stay up there for long. She wasn't going to go along with Selwyn if he asked for her, and she'd tell Draco to sod off.

If it was Ron...

It wouldn't be Ron. That much she was sure of.

Hermione had a fair idea of who would be upstairs, and she felt pride wash over her when she saw the long blonde locks peek over the armchair.

But it wasn't white-blonde, as Grimward had; it was strawberry blonde.

Draco stood, his fingers busy with his cufflinks. It was the same as he'd been the night of her party, and she resisted the urge to rush over to help him. Instead, a dainty hand reached up to him, to take his hand and affix the metal for him. He was dressed in a black suit and green tie, which struck her as odd. It was around eleven in the evening, if her watch was correct. She felt underdressed, as she'd tugged her bathrobe closer.

She didn't much like the way Draco looked at her, even less as his mother peeked over the back of the chair.

The same wash of ice-cold worry took over Hermione, as it had at the Cibus Cafe. She had assumed it was instincts, or because Mrs. Malfoy so strongly resembled her sister. Where Bellatrix was angles and darkness, Narcissa was curves and softness. She was still beautiful, and angular, but she didn't seem like a real woman. More like an artist's rendition, or a living portrait one would see in the Grand Staircase.

But she had a piercing gaze, which was shadowed in dark blue. It reminded her of Selwyn, only in the intensity.

It dawned on her that the woman had used _Legilimens _in the cafe.

Whether she'd become more attuned to it or not, Mrs. Malfoy had deigned it necessary to tear apart Hermione's memories when they'd locked eyes at the cafe. She hated it, hated how their family was so rooted in deception and infiltration as if they couldn't just _ask_ one another questions rather than resort to stealing it.

What had she learned in that cafe?

"Oh, Selwyn was so right about you," she said, lofty and warm. It was a strange balance of the two, as she stood up with Draco's assistance. "It's like you _want_ people to pick your brain."

"I don't, actually," Hermione's neck heated up, along the back, as she stared down Mrs. Malfoy's rich black shoes.

"I used to be the same, so -- " she gestured in the air as if she were trying to grab the words. "Spirited."

Draco made a sound, as if in amusement, and his mother silenced him with a look.

Hermione crossed and uncrossed her arms, as she tried to find the best way to disguise her oversized t-shirt with a cartoon cat on it. Her pajama pants were a lost cause, printed with owls with glasses and stacks of books. They were just pajamas, no one ever saw them, and if they did, it hardly mattered. At least her robe was practical, in a deep blue, and she did her best to hide within it.

"So, you wanted me to come up, to..." Hermione looked at Draco, uncertainty in her voice and in the angle of her brows.

"Yes, well," Mrs. Malfoy gave Hermione a once-over, as her head gently rested from side to side. "I wanted to tell you that I couldn't hope to teach you anything about guarding your mind."

"You came all this way to tell me that?"

"How very self-involved of you, dear." Mrs. Malfoy smiled.

Hermione didn't enjoy her smile one bit. She had a maternal warmth to her, wrapped up in silk and lace. It was like seeing into Pansy's future, in about thirty years or so.

"Ooh, thirty years?" Mrs. Malfoy touched her face, and pouted. "She's so ruthless, isn't she?"

Draco had to hide his laughter behind his hand.

"Yes, well, thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione rolled her eyes, as petulant as possible. When her gaze stilled, she made sure to avoid the older woman's eye.

"If you_ must_ know, I came here to collect my son. If that's alright with you, of course," she spoke, sweet and light. "There's a wedding this weekend, and he's to be in attendance. We had hoped to have a third member in our party, but those plans seemed to have changed."

Hermione waved a hand. "And?"

"You asked, Ms. Granger." Mrs. Malfoy spoke, slow and purposeful. She tossed her head, just a fraction, to adjust how her hair sat around her face. "_You_ asked if I'd come here to tell you that I wouldn't be able to help you. I was explaining myself, though I owe you no such thing."

"Fantastic," Hermione bit out, as she glared daggers at Draco.

"Ms. Parkinson and Ms. Greengrass will be in attendance, as they headed off after dinner, I do believe... I anticipated Draco would be in class 'til late, hence the late hour," she turned, to waggle a finger at her son. "And that... Oh, that _Fawley_ girl. But as I said, plans changed."

Draco's smile fell, as he flexed his brows. He went to speak but remained quiet. Instead, he stared his mother down and she met his gaze. In the silence, Draco cringed and his mother laughed.

"Oh, Draco." Her voice smacked of _boys will be boys_, as she no doubt gleaned the fight he'd had with her. "You should be nicer to her. She's sweet on you, pet." She examined her son with the same lofty interest as she'd held Hermione with. 

Draco tugged at his collar, to adjust the fit.

Hermione shifted her weight, foot to foot, anxious about why this meeting had been necessary. She kept her gaze fixed to the ceiling, at the sky above. She didn't care to look directly at Mrs. Malfoy, as the woman seemed hellbent on picking through her brain. Her idle back and forth caught Mrs. Malfoy's eye. She looked much like a bird of prey, as she turned back to Hermione with only her head.

"You wouldn't want to come, would you, Hermione? It's in the French countryside, over the weekend." She smiled as if this were perfectly normal. "There's plenty of room."

"You can't really invite me to a wedding that isn't -- " Hermione poked her finger in the air as if trying to make a diagram. "It couldn't be _your_ wedding, and I assume Draco would have mentioned if it was _his_ wedding."

"They're hosting it in our summer home, I should say they can accept one more guest, given Draco soured his date last minute."

Hermione stared the woman's shoes down, her shoulders squared. "Aren't you meant to be under house arrest?"

All Mrs. Malfoy's hospitality and sweetness froze. Where there had been curves and a gentle sway was instead a marble statue, arched and smoothed at each joint. "Given how deeply you inspected our family, you of all people should know we were pardoned of all charges."

Hermione inched her gaze up, just a little, and she saw the woman who'd have loved nothing more than to see Hermione's name on a gravestone rather than a guest list.

"Mother," Draco began, softly, but he was silenced by the raise of her hand. The Malfoys remained stationary, and it was then she noticed the small briefcase that leaned against the couch. McGonagall had said that the Eighth years were able to go away at their own discretion, but she'd not thought anyone would actually make use of this privilege.

"I didn't mean to offend you by asking," Hermione countered, her gaze still fixed on the floor. "It's just that polite people tend to ask questions rather than pick through peoples' minds."

"Yes, yes, you're so very righteous, so happy for you," she paused, to fidget with her earrings. "Tripley is waiting for us, darling. We'll be using the Floo network at our house in Hogsmeade."

"I'm sorry, did you seriously bring me up here just to tell me you weren't going to tutor me -- "

"And to invite you to the wedding, to give you a chance to change my mind." Mrs. Malfoy waved a hand, which was adorned with a few sleek, silver rings. One sparkled extra bright and sat on her ring finger. No doubt her wedding ring.

"You can't just turn up and say, _oh, come to a wedding in France_!" Hermione did her best not to shout, unable to make peace with the flippancy of the pair. "People don't do that. Normal people don't do that."

Mrs. Malfoy looked at Draco, as if he were stupid. "I'm failing to see the appeal, dear."

"It's Order business," Draco said, sharp and sure.

Hermione snapped her gaze to his, her lips pursed.

Mrs. Malfoy's eyebrows arched higher, as she looked at Draco with evident confusion. She melted back, until her brows relaxed and her faint smile returned.

"What do you mean?" Hermione insisted, her hands bunched at her sides. She stared him down, defiant and annoyed, desperate to know what the hell his angle was.

Draco looked at his mother, then at Hermione. "Remember your birthday, when I said I'd tell you something, but we never got a chance to talk?"

Hermione remained as cautious as an alley cat faced with a leash.

"I was going to tell you, then, about the wedding, but Emily -- " He exhaled through his teeth, and looked past Hermione, at the dorms. No one was down the stairs, but it was a black abyss, too difficult to see into and even more difficult to trust. "You of all people recognize that Hogwarts isn't a place to exchange information."

Every single cell in Hermione's body screamed that this was a lie and that he wanted her to come for other reasons. She didn't know what, and she had no proof, but he had hung bait in front of her and she was naive. She got that. But what if it was true She bounced on the spot, her teeth clenched and her fingers in motion as if she were on the edge of discovery.

"You're not lying, are you."

Draco shook his head, simply.

"Do you think Voldemort left something there?"

"She knows about all that?" Mrs. Malfoy said, dark and disappointed.

"Come to our house, in Hogsmeade. Even if you don't come to the wedding, at least we can speak freely," he looked past her again.

* * *

"This tea is lovely," Hermione said to test the waters.

Mrs. Malfoy sipped at her expensive chamomile and didn't deign to respond. She didn't seem angry, more confused, about her son and the Muggleborn girl he'd insisted on bringing along.

She had fuzzy slippers on which she'd enchanted against dirt, and which she'd made it to Hogsmeade with little issue. She twiddled her feet back and forth, and realized too late that she'd tracked mud into the house.

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

"I was brought into the Order at Snape's request," Draco had his coffee clasped off to the side, black, no cream, no sugar. He was standing rather than sitting, as he tended to the fire. It lashed orange and bright, but they were waiting for their appointment via the Floo network. As Mrs. Malfoy had said, they'd expected to be out of class far later, not to mention the time it would take to get ready.

"You agreed to assist the Order if they helped your family in return." Hermione tapped her short nails on the teacup, which she cupped with two hands.

"Mother too. Snape insisted," Draco swallowed hard. "No one knows, of the ah... _His_ followers."

"And your father?" Hermione prompted, confused.

"My father has no idea. He wouldn't accept such an offer, he's too proud."

"Your father holds his pride as a virtue," Mrs. Malfoy punctuated, as she set her teacup down into its saucer. It didn't make a sound, and Hermione wondered if they were enchanted. She set her teacup down and found they were not, as the clatter of porcelain broke the ambiance of the fireplace.

Their Floo appointment wouldn't be ready until one in the morning, which by her watch was at least half an hour away. It wasn't soon enough.

"Did you know, about Selwyn? The real Selwyn, I mean, being a descendant of the Malfoy family," Hermione corrected, as she looked between Mrs. Malfoy and Draco.

"He's Lucius's cousin, or half-cousin, though he kept well away from the family. None of us knew, though old gossip about Abraxas meant there would always be cretins out to claim the family fortune. As if money was the main concern of the name," Mrs. Malfoy swirled her tea. "When Grimward was brought into the Ministry for questioning, about his blood status, it came to light that he truly was a half-blooded Malfoy. The Dark -- that creature, he decided that it was an insult to our cause."

"His parents were collected, and they were brought to our manor. He did it to test us," Draco added, as he tapped his fingers against the marble mantle. "We each had to kill our -- our _match_, so to say."

Mrs. Malfoy looked weary as she stared at her tea, a thick tear beaded down her cheek. She did nothing about it, as she seemed to disassociate. She was snapped back into reality when the fire licked at one of the logs, and it cracked down the side.

"His parents, Clive, Desdemona, we had to... To see to them, and Lou -- Lucius -- I couldn't," Mrs. Malfoy laughed, musical in her tragedy. "I couldn't."

"And I argued against it, in a sense," Draco paused, as he ran his fingers around his thumb. "I made a case, for how it was better to make him suffer. We had some Dementors around, which needed to be fed on happiness, and... It was strange," Draco smiled, in spite of the darkness of the story. "He lasted so much longer than anyone else. Months."

"I think he had hope," Mrs. Malfoy said, the word 'hope' almost unfamiliar to her tongue. She stumbled on it and set her tea aside for good. It was still full.

"Snape decided he would be useful, for his own reasons," Draco waved a hand, and rubbed at his eyes. She couldn't tell if he was tired or if he was crying, but she had long since given up on caring about the latter.

"We, that is Snape, Draco and I, we sent him through the fireplace, to here," she ran the backs of her fingers across her neck, as she adjusted a sleek silver necklace. "I told the Dark Lord that one of the Dementors had gotten too hungry, and finished him. He didn't care, as you could imagine. What was the boy, if not a message to _us_?"

The resemblance between Grimward and Draco was unmistakable. Hermione found it hard to imagine what it would be like to torture someone who looked like family, or hell, _was_ her family. She'd struggled to even erase her parents' memories out of kindness. She couldn't imagine acting with cruelty towards them, or any of her loved ones.

Mrs. Malfoy leaned forward, to lift a corner of the tablecloth. She tugged out a photo, to show Hermione.

"He had these when we brought him here."

It was a photo of Selwyn, though he looked so much younger. It reminded her of Sirius, when she'd seen what he looked like in his youth, compared to how he looked after Azkaban. His hair was nicely styled, and his eyes were full and bright. He had a young girl on his knee, and an older couple behind him. They had to be his parents, given the similarities. The father looked almost identical to Lucius, while the wife had the same lofty aristocracy as Narcissa. They didn't seem to be rich, not in the way the Malfoys were, but they were well-off.

The figure that stood out most was the young girl on Selwyn's knee, who could have easily passed as Draco's sister. She had brilliant white-blond hair that poofed out with curls, and a missing front tooth.

The back had their names, _Clive, Desdemona, Grimward and Ivana__, 1986._

"We never saw the girl," Draco added as if to answer the question for Hermione. "She'd died, we're unsure how. Somewhere between the Ministry and our home. Voldemort had no time for half-blood children." He scoffed, as the irony smacked on each word.

"He looks so happy here." Hermione felt the misery well up, as she thought of Snape, who wore the man's face like a macabre mask. He loomed around corners and spat venom, camouflaged in the skin of a man who might have been Hermione's friend in another life.

Two more photos were with them, one where he was alone with his younger sister, and then one with a woman with red hair and round glasses. As the photo flashed up at her, her eyes went green. They were baking, it looked like, and they'd made a huge mess. But they seemed happy in their mess, with Selwyn coated in flour and Ayers with a smudge of chocolate icing on her nose.

"You should give this to her," Hermione said, softly. "To Ayers."

"Not much of a point," Draco shrugged. "I don't think she'd want it."

"He's alive, isn't he?" Hermione tucked the photos back under the corner of the tablecloth and looked back to Mrs. Malfoy. "Where _is_ he?"

"The attic of the Shrieking Shack. We have people taking care of him, to see if he'll be able to recover himself." Mrs. Malfoy made a gesture, and the fireplace went green. "That's our cue. It's been a pleasure, Ms. Granger."

"I want to come with."

Draco and his mother had matching arches to their brows, and a smirk on each of their lips.

"If he hid a Horcrux in your summer home, I want to be there to find it." She said, sternly. "I've had more experience with them than either of you, I could help."

Hermione hadn't packed any clothes or toiletries, but such things were a problem for when she arrived. She had her wand and her want. So what if she was in fuzzy slippers and a terrycloth bathrobe.

* * *

> _ **September 26th, 1998. Oh, the wonders of womanhood.** _

Hermione woke up to the smell of vanilla and a fireplace.

Rather than crammed into a single bed, she was sprawled across a magnificent king-sized double, with white linen sheets and mint green pillows. Each edge was hemmed with silver, and the first thing she thought was that something was amiss.

Her period had come several days early.

Of course.

Five minutes later and a swift _scourgify_, she'd recovered from an unexpected period and eternal embarrassment. She was left in her robe and little else, as she scrubbed at her pajamas and wished she'd just jumped into the lake the previous night. At least that'd be less mortifying than how she'd woken up, in a gorgeous French manor in the countryside. She hadn't had much time to take in the high ceilings or ornate trims to each wall. There was silver and gold inlaid to all the fixtures and more ivory than she thought strictly ethical.

Twenty minutes later she was clean, as she invited herself into a shower in the en-suite (because of course their _summer mansion_ would have guest bedrooms with an en-suite). She scoured the room, high and low, as she tried to find anything strange. She looked for out of place jewelry, books, anything that gave off a generally menacing presence.

Everything except her cartoon cat t-shirt, which looked ridiculous as it laid across the rich black oak chair. 

"Missus!" A pop sounded along with the voice, and Hermione screamed.

And the tiny house-elf screamed. "Why's we screaming, miss?" The house-elf hollered.

"You scared me!" Hermione had her hand on her chest, as she tried to force her heart to slow back down.

"No, you scared me!" The house-elf exhaled with her hands on her hips. She had a doily strapped around her hips and a dark grey pillowcase underneath it. It almost looked like a proper outfit, except for how boxy it was.

"Why are you here?" Hermione framed her hands against her temples, as she slid onto the edge of the bed.

"Someone was casting cleaning charms, so's I figured they needed help."

"Everything's fine," Hermione buried her face in her hands, as she dragged her fingers down her face. "Thank you."

The house-elf looked her over, once, and pouted. "Missus, I don't's mean to be mean's, but..." She cupped her mouth to lessen the sound of her voice. "But is that what the missus is to wear's for breakfasts?"

Hermione looked down at the bathrobe, which was all she had on, and a pair of knickers.

"No, I just woke up. I didn't bring clothes, you see -- "

"Yes, yes, the Mrs. Mrs. said you were the Muggle baby, said you had um -- " the house-elf considered her words carefully, and toyed with the hem of her doily. "_Unique tastes._" She affected Mrs. Malfoy's posture and voice for that and giggled privately.

"This is a bathrobe."

"Is a very pretty robe, missus, honest."

"No, it's a_ bathrobe_, like, a robe you wear in your bedroom."

"Whatever makes the missus feel pretty in the bedroom -- "

Hermione hissed through her teeth, as she never so badly wanted to throttle a house-elf in her life. "As you can see, I don't need any help, and I cleaned up already, so you are very kind for checking in, but I promise I don't need any help."

"The Young Mister told me to come help, seeing as you're a guest's, and you's don't know how to do wizarding things, he said." She waved her hands, as if she'd just remembered something. "Missus! I'm Tripley! I'm a house-elf!" She bowed deeply, and her long nose nearly touched the black oak floor.

"I'm Hermione, a, um, witch, I suppose." She was almost naked, and this little house-elf just wanted to help. Even if she was misguided in her attention.

Despite Hermione's protests, Tripley gave her a thorough tour of the guest bedroom. She showed her a mirror that would help her fix her hair, and suggest styles to suit her face. Apparently, it also did makeup ideas, but hair was it's primary concern.

(The mirror laughed in Hermione's face and refused to respond.)

She showed Hermione the closet, which would provide clothes that suited whatever the purpose was. They were loose and easily styled, and Tripley said she'd help to fit whatever robes Hermione picked. That was at least more helpful than the mirror. She also helped Hermione find toiletries, including things to assist with her period.

Tripley had the air of someone who'd seen the most debase human acts and was unphased by everything. She instructed Hermione on how to use each product, from a toothbrush to a tampon, as if Hermione wasn't a nineteen-year-old girl who'd had dozens of periods in her life.

Hermione, dazed by her whirlwind induction into the guest bedroom, wasn't even dressed by the time Draco arrived.

"Granger?" He had peeked in through the door, and ducked back when he saw Hermione in her bathrobe.

"Young Mister, don't, don't, don't!" Tripley cried, as she ran over to wave her little hands at Draco.

"Is Tripley bothering you?"

Tripley flinched, her hands on her head and her posture suddenly turned inward.

"No, not at all. She's been so helpful," Hermione said, anger etched into her frown.

"I was about to escort Hermineoy to breakfast as you said, as you asked."

"It's _Hermione_," Draco corrected. "See her to the dining hall when she's dressed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOULD YOU BELIEVE ME IF I SAID THIS WHOLE FIC WAS AN EXCUSE FOR THIS ONE SCENE 'CAUSE THIS IS LITERALLY THE FIRST PART I PLANNED. Oop.
> 
> (Also, 24 chapters in and we've gone a month in-story... Only another 11 months to go, so, eep.)
> 
> ((Whispers please stick with me, I have A Plan.))


	24. the good graces to die.

> _ **September 26th, 1998.** _

Hermione had never been hungover before, but she had a sneaking suspicion this is how it felt.

She felt the same dizzy regret and nauseous swells that Ginny had complained about the weekend before. She hoped she could stop herself from following suit and throwing up. She couldn't imagine anything worse than throwing up out of raw nerves, at the black oak table alongside Draco and his parents.

Because yes, she'd taken a trip through the Floo network at one in the morning, on an Order mission that wasn't her own.

On a whim, she'd agreed to go to Draco <strike>Fucking</strike> Malfoy's French Countryside Mansion, and she had to think of it in that manner because it really didn't sink in last night. Not as she'd landed feet first through the fireplace, into a room that was the size of her entire house back in England, or as she'd been escorted to the guest bedroom.

It was easier in the dark to pretend it was an elaborate dream, where they'd dance and laugh and have a wonderful time.

(But not kiss, because it wasn't like that, and he was a prat.)

It seemed improper to wear her Muggle pajamas to breakfast with the Malfoys, so she allowed Tripley to assist her with some robes. They were deep blue and shapeless, though Tripley had cinched for her with the snap of her fingers. Now, they were so fitted she could feel her ribs strain against the fabric, like a woman who'd been crammed into a corset for the first time.

The fit of the dress made her realize how terrible her eating habits had become, as she'd skipped meals or forgotten to eat. She loaded herself up with extra oatmeal and reminded herself to be thankful for the food she had.

The year on the run still hadn't left her, as she got by on minimal food. But that wasn't how it had to be now.

Mrs. Malfoy had even said she looked nice, and she shouldn't care, but she did.

But she shouldn't care, it was something she'd say to be nice.

Though when had Mrs. Malfoy ever deigned to be _nice?_

The trio ate in silence, which suited Hermione. She felt barely human after her restless sleep, and her morning with Tripley. They each had food they'd picked from the lavish spread, eggs, bacon, cuts of meat and fruit... It was much like the spreads she'd see at Hogwarts, but she had to remind herself this was a home for three people, not a private boarding school. It was far more lavish than the eggs and toast she'd rely upon at home.

Hermione had gotten herself juice. It was so tart and sweet at once, and she had never enjoyed juice so much. Across the table, she could see Draco had defaulted to black coffee, much like his father, Lucius.

(It was difficult to call the man who'd tried to kill her by his formal title, you understand.)

"I hope you slept well, Hermione." Lucius cast a smile at her, like a child who had been told to be nice to a guest.

Hermione choked on her egg, as she stared down a man who had tried to jinx her head off.

And he smiled even wider.

"She was a late invitation," Draco interjected, his posture wider and taller than before.

"Why should I care who you have as a guest? I think it's nice, you're reaching out to the less fortunate," Lucius feigned innocence, as he flicked his gaze between his plate and Hermione. "And one who may provide enlightening conversations."

Hermione had to wonder what conversations he'd want to have with her. Perhaps he'd want to ask how his _flippendo_ had hit, if he needed to put more malice behind it. She prayed he didn't ask her any questions, she didn't trust her tongue.

"It wouldn't do to have Draco attend alone," Mrs. Malfoy picked at her thin toast, which she'd barely eaten any of.

"I was under the impression that young Fawley girl was his date." Lucius stared Hermione down, though she felt nothing but nausea and contempt. No heat, no cool, no sensation of her memories being spun around his fingers for his amusement.

If he was able to use Legilimens, he wasn't very good.

Hermione busied herself with lining up beans on her plate with the tip of her knife, as she mathed out how far she'd have to run to Apparate.

Probably at least five hundred meters.

Ugh.

"Emily couldn't be in attendance," Mrs. Malfoy brushed at her bracelet, which had gotten stuck on the edge of her robes.

"She's sick," Draco said, as a flat out lie.

"Such a shame." Lucius hummed from the back of his throat. "I suppose that the Fawley girl is no great loss of company," Lucius said, as he ruffled out his Daily Prophet like a buried treasure map.

For a split second she pictured him as Captain Hook, sinister in his elegance and all-around content in his misery.

The frilly shirt he had one didn't help, and she had to look away before she laughed.

Breakfast proceeded in polite conversation, which Hermione didn't insert herself into. Mainly it was Mrs. Malfoy babbling with Lucius about the venue, outside, and how they were expecting people in the afternoon. Lucius seemed half-there, though he looked like he'd rested from his stint in Azkaban.

Somehow he'd convinced the Ministry that he'd been coerced into the blood feud as if he weren't as bad as all of them.

"The wedding isn't anything huge," Mrs. Malfoy waved a hand, towards the giant windows.

The very fact they were having a wedding at their house at all spoke of it's grandeur. Perhaps they were used to it, and it was second-nature to have giant staircases and more floors than people in their home. Hermione was used to the ancient splendor of Hogwarts, which thrived on mismatched tapestries and threadbare carpet. It had nothing on the pristine, almost sterile elegance of the Malfoy manor.

Sorry, the Draco <strike>Fucking</strike> Malfoy's French Countryside Mansion. This wasn't their _real_ home, this was their mini-mansion in the French countryside, and it never got any less ridiculous to think about.

Hermione ignored their personalized silverware and the vases that cost more than her entire Hogwarts education.

Instead, she smiled, and nodded, as she did her best to endure the pleasantries. "I'm sure you'll have a lovely day."

"Why dear, you'll be attending," Mrs. Malfoy laughed, too politely to be her real laugh. "That's why we invited you."

Hermione looked at Draco, peeved that she'd not been informed that actually attending the wedding had been mandatory. She had been falsely operating under the assumption she was here to assist in their search if any artifacts Voldemort had popped down here for safekeeping.

Not schmoozing with dozens of ex-Death Eaters.

"Forgive me for saying," Lucius interrupted.

_I won't,_ Hermione thought.

"But I find it... Well, strange," he gestured between Draco and Hermione with a loose fist. "I understand wanting to rehabilitate public image, but this is a little unbelievable. The Fawley family are at least within the same social circle."

"Sweetness," Mrs. Malfoy smiled at her husband, in the same way that an angler fish dangled the light for its prey. "You have no place to comment on our public image after all the ire you've drawn with your escapades. You've dragged our name through the mud enough times for it to be mistaken for a swine."

"You mean _my_ name," he folded his hands in front of him, and tipped his head to look over his smart reading glasses.

(As if _that_ were the thing to comment on.)

"I married you, and I bore you an heir, so by all accounts that name is more mine than yours at this point," she smiled again, even sweeter. Hermione wondered if this was normal for them. Draco seemed unaffected, so she followed his lead.

"I think it's just such a clear grab for public sympathy. Emily at least made sense, but this," he threw his hand in Hermione's direction and smiled back at his wife. "Do you really expect to rehabilitate our public image because you've brought a Muggleborn -- "

"I didn't invite her because of that," Draco cut in, his tongue as sharp as his glare.

Lucius raked his gaze over Hermione, with his ill-fitted robes and her too-big hair. She didn't want to know what he was thinking, not as he heaved a sigh as if she was a painting he didn't much like. As if they could secret her away in the attic until the season changed, and she'd be more appropriate.

"I think it's perfectly logical." She lied. Because this was anything but logical.

The three Malfoys seemed to forget that she could speak, as she looked at each of them with measured patience.

"That is," Hermione began, not sure what it was at all. "What better way to show that you've moved on from your past than to make peace with those you've hurt most. Maybe not me, specifically, but..." She adjusted the sleeve of her robe, where the tender flesh of her inner forearm bore the word Lucius wanted to hurl her way.

"And you believe we've moved on from all that?"

"I'd like to think so." Hermione faltered, and her gaze jumped between the food, the walls, as she wasn't sure. "I know Draco has, at least."

Lucius snorted, and pushed up from the table. He shook out his robes and adjusted himself before he left without another word. This was somehow worse, as Mrs. Malfoy looked at her with sad eyes. She too stood up, and walked around to a different exit from the dining room.

"Much to organize," she said, softly, as she went off to do _something. _It was safe to assume it was about the wedding, though Hermione still had no idea who was to be married.

Draco laid his knife and fork neatly stacked in the middle of his plate.

Hermione couldn't help but contrast this with The Burrow, which was packed with laughter and with mismatched plates. There was more life in one square inch of the table than the whole dining room here, with stains and scrapes and too much noise. She didn't hate this place, but it was suffocating in a unique way. As if she'd stepped into a museum, which she wasn't meant to touch anything in.

But the whole _house_ was this way, not just sections behind velvet ropes.

When Draco walked out, she remained seated for a few seconds too long. With no hope and no idea of what she was meant to do here, she bounded after him, inelegant and anxious.

As stiff and unsure as she felt, Draco was worse. He looked just as uncertain as her, as she rushed to match his stride. He'd not spoken, not since she'd said that she thought he'd changed. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, or she had upset him with that comment. But it was a compliment, in her eyes, and she chewed at her bottom lip as she worked through her thoughts.

"So, who's getting married?"

"You don't know?" Draco cocked a brow at her, and the first smile she'd seen from him reemerged. "We are."

Hermione tripped on the carpet and stared him down with terror. "Excuse me?" After a beat, the words dawned on her. It'd been a _joke_, if one could call it that.

"Well, Emily called off the arrangement, and I thought you'd not had any better offers -- "

She shoved him, which made his icy demeanor crack.

His laughter echoed through the house, unforgiving as he regained his footing. "No, it's Theodore's half-sister and some wizard from France," Draco couldn't stop grinning, not as he watched her wind up in front of him.

"Don't do that!"

"What, answer your question?"

Hermione's fingers wriggled, as she resisted the urge to hex him. She parted her lips with a flick of her tongue and ignored the heat that emanated from her face.

They emerged in the gardens outside, which overlooked a valley. The mansion was on the edge of a cliff, with forests and a distant stream visible. She stamped down any sound of surprise that might have come from her parted lips. She didn't wait for Draco, to rush over to the stone latticed edge and to look out over the landscape. It was like someone had lifted the castle from somewhere else, and expanded the grounds in ways that would be impossible without magic.

Flowers bloomed from all angles, and hedges lined each pathway. Ornate black iron fences sat low to the ground and wormed their way between the hedges and trees. Lamp posts were speckled around, with magical silver lights enchanted within frosted glass lanterns. Stone statues of dragons and serpents were mixed into the grassy areas, with plaques that described each statue, who had made it, what it represented.

A rogue white peacock strutted past and gave Hermione the most disgusted look she'd ever received from a bird.

Draco ghosted her, amused for reasons he kept quiet. She didn't notice at first, as she speed-walked around the garden, eager to inspect all the elements with her hands and eyes. She smelled flowers and touched the statues, and it had been a good five minutes before she realized how silent Draco had remained.

She blinked, pollen on her cheek from a flower that had reached out to sniff her. She rubbed at her cheek, which made it worse, the thick yellow plumes now smeared on her robes and hands.

"Quite satisfied?"

"I can't believe this is your house -- "

"Summer home."

Hermione made a breathy sound, and waved her hand at him. "This is ridiculous, you realize?"

Draco looked confused, as he looked at the mansion behind him, then back to her.

"I mean, it makes sense, how pompous you always were, when you were in First year." She laughed, as he approached her.

But he didn't stop, as she expected. Rather, he closed the gap between them as he lifted her wrist with his hand. Much like the cafe, he cleaned her off and gave her a very quizzical look. He brushed at her hair, to knock the pollen out. Worst of all, he reached out to wipe her cheek, at the spot she'd made worse for herself.

And _worse_ than all of that, she let him.

"You're such a mess," he exhaled, and she allowed it. She had called him pompous moments ago.

"That was the flower, not me," she said, as if the reality of the situation had crashed down on her all at once. She stared up at him, at his ice-blue eyes and manicured brows, so unlike all the other boys she endured. Draco didn't seem quite real to her, like magic, in his pale colouring and polished appearance.

He didn't lick his thumb and smear her face, and he didn't ruffle her hair with all his might.

For once, she didn't feel like a grubby kid sister being pitied.

His hand remained on her cheek, cool and calloused. She didn't lean into it, or pull away from it, she just remained frozen, unsure, as she stared at him. As if asking what exactly he was about to do, because there could only be so much pollen to give him an excuse.

"Do you really think I've learned anything?" He said, as if he wanted nothing more than to shove her away and pretend none of this had happened.

"No," Hermione frowned, but it softened as she touched his wrist. "I rather think you _knew_ what was right, all along. It's just about letting people see that, worst of all, your family."

Draco shook his head, upset for reasons that Hermione couldn't place.

"You hurt me, and people like me, no doubt," Hermione pressed on, as she dipped her head sideways, to catch his eye. "But there were people who'd stand to hurt you, if you did any different. I know it's easy to believe that you are what people say you are, but you need to decide for yourself who _you_ are. And you've taken the right steps, in assisting the Order, in being nice to those who you'd have snubbed before."

Draco let his hand fall away as he adjusted his robes. He shrugged, annoyed any nothing specific, at her, maybe, or at the world. He looked at her, between the distance he'd imposed on them as if he wanted nothing more than to snatch her right back up. And the strange part was, Hermione would let him, if he did. 

But he didn't.

And he left her in the garden, under a droopy black oak tree.

Hermione spent the better part of the morning in search of anything strange or out of place. She couldn't find Draco, or his parents, but she did have Tripley to assist her. They looked in each of the sitting rooms, several of the guest bedrooms, and the kitchen. The bedrooms were off-limits, and Hermione didn't want to encroach on their space.

By the time guests had begun to arrive, Hermione ran into Mrs. Malfoy.

"Dear, dear, dear," she hurried Hermione towards one of their many rooms, which happened to be a closet of sorts. There were mirrors and a beautiful vanity, in alabaster white rather than stark black. The mirror had ether lights around it, similar to the Hollywood mirrors, and she had to wonder if this was a wizarding equivalent.

Or, she would wonder that, had she the time.

But instead, she found herself stripped to her knickers by Tripley, with a slab of white wood her only form of modesty. Mrs. Malfoy remained on the other side, a glass of white wine held off to the side.

"You need to get ready, I had thought Draco would take care of you," she moaned, as if her life was so difficult. "I'll be with the guests, but Tripley can modify one of my old dresses, you're a tiny girl, it'll be fine -- "

And she rushed out, the harried hostess who had an event to arrange. Hermione stared at Tripley, who blinked one eyelid after the other, so slow that she looked drunk.

"Are you quite okay, Tripley?"

"Am's peachy-brilliant!" The house-elf giggled, though she was speaking to the mirror rather than Hermione. "Oh, missus, you'd naked."

"Have you been drinking this whole time?"

Tripley nodded, and smiled, her hands clasped beneath her chin. "It helps's me with the nerves's."

Hermione felt satin and silk slam into her body, as it pooled around her collarbone and seeped down her body. She never used magic to get dressed, as it felt so unnecessary. But Tripley was performing a small orchestra, with a hairpin for a conductor's rod. She imagined it'd feel more fun and light, like the scene in Cinderella, but instead, she felt like a hundred hands were grabbing at her from all directions.

The sound of people outside increased, loosely, and it seemed like a positive thing.

If she ignored the fact there would be ex-Death Eaters out there.

The ones who'd received pardons, or sold out their brethren for their freedom.

By the time Tripley's hand stilled, Hermione was wrapped up in a silver dress with green embroidery, with an inlaid layer of deep emerald silk. The dress hugged her throat and plumed down, over her chest. Her arms were exposed, fully, and she had been elevated by some wedge heels covered in emerald silk.

Hermione looked at herself in the mirror, her hand over her forearm. She rubbed her hand back and forth, as a glamour charm overtook her scar from Bellatrix. It wasn't perfect, but enough that she'd not shake hands with people and see the pity in their eyes. She wasn't sure if she should be proud of her scar or embarrassed, but that was a concern for another day, another time.

"This is lovely, Tripley, but could we change the colour, perhaps?" Hermione said, in a small voice.

"You don't like silvers and greens's?" Tripley gasped, her tiny hand pressed to her chest. It was likely the first time she'd ever been asked to transform something away from the Malfoy family colours.

"I like blue?" Hermione said, uncertain.

Tripley snapped her fingers, and the green became silver, and the silver became blue. It was like a mug that changed colors with heat, a fun novelty toy you'd see in Muggle gift shops. But the colors rippled and settled, with a deep sapphire for the body of the green with silver accents along the edges.

"I can't believe this," Hermione exhaled, her hands framed on her forehead. She stepped out, to look in the mirrors and gain a better idea of the dress she'd been given.

"You don't like it?" Tripley cried, as she snapped the little hairpin she'd been clutching.

"No, I love it! I just, this is a lot, you know?"

"Shorter then?" And she raised her hand, about to snap. Hermione grabbed her little wrist and knelt beside Tripley.

"No, Tripley, thank you," Hermione gave the little house-elf a hug, and drew back to smile at her. "It's beautiful."

"I should say," a voice came from the doorway. "I was worried you'd embarrass my son, but at least you're presentable."

Hermione glared at the door, where Lucius was standing.

"We're all waiting on you." He waved a hand to her, to hurry her over. When she arrived, he offered an arm.

Hermione accepted it, begrudgingly, as they began towards the rest of the guests.

"I suggest you enjoy this event, Hermione," he said, sleek and warm. She didn't like how he spoke, not one bit.

"I'm sure I will."

"Treat it as your last," he said, as they pivoted down the hallways and towards the open back backyard. "It could very well be."

Hermione looked up at him, confused.

"You've exploited my son's pity for you, and that pity has extended to my wife." He adjusted their posture, to bring her closer.

"I haven't," Hermione said, agitated.

"We have every intention of complying with the new attitudes towards Mudbloods, but I refuse to have such a group infiltrate our family."

Hermione felt more at ease, somehow, as at least he was being honest now, rather than speaking around her with forced politeness. At least he was honest, in how he saw her and how he spoke about her.

"The Malfoy family has wealth, political power, numerous properties, I could go on," he paused, to slip her hand into his.

"I'm so happy for you."

"Were my son not entitled to such things, you'd treat him the same as any other of his ranks. He performed tasks for the Dark Lord with precision and glee, and I imagine if he weren't heir to such an inheritance or prestige, you'd have give him no second thought."

Hermione squinted at Lucius, as she realized he was implying she was using Draco for his -- wealth?

As if she had ever cared about that.

As if she were us_ing_ him.

"You don't know me at all, if you think you need to warn me off your son." Hermione tightened her grip on his forearm. From the outside, they must have looked so companionable. A few girls Hermione failed to recognize smiled at them as they passed by, and she wished she could be so oblivious.

"I know that you were the accessory to a clumsy execution, of a man you disagreed with. You'd not even the good graces to die shortly after, like so many of your friends." 

"Sorry to disappoint you with my continued existence," Hermione smiled, the same sweet smile she'd seen his wife give him earlier. "Though I'd suggest that _Voldemort_ was more than someone I minorly disagreed with; he simplified myself, and anyone like me, to thieves and vermin. As if we were a threat to _your_ way of life."

Lucius shrugged, as if he didn't see the issue in that. They held eye contact for a moment longer, before he lifted her hand. He kissed the back of it, as elegant as every other thing about his home and family.

And he'd timed it, as Draco broke into her line of sight seconds later.

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione snatched her hand away, and looked at Draco. He was red from the tips of his ears to his neck, as he stared his father down.

Lucius merely smiled.

"The Aurors arrived!" Tripley sprinted through the group, to hide behind Mrs. Malfoy. From the shadowed belly of the mansion emerged a group of ten or so witches and wizards.

"Hermione?"

Ron, Harry -- oh no.

Oh _fuck_.


	25. poisoned blood and broken bones.

> _ **September 26th, 1998. Things must get worse before they can get better... Right?** _

Gryffindor was a house exemplified for it's courage and bravery, even in the stickiest of situations. They were expected to do the difficult things, and to do so with confidence and pride.

Which is why Hermione prayed Godric Gryffindor wasn't looking down at her when she rushed away, to leave Draco, Harry and Ron behind in a swish of silk.

Her wedged heels didn't help, though she was thankful when she looked back and no one was behind her. Either they'd missed her retreat, or decided to give her space. She was thankful either way.

It was her, alone in a birch wood gazebo with too many cushions and flowers.

And she needed the time to think.

It made sense that Aurors would be in attendance.

There would be tens of people here, if not more, all with lukewarm allegiances to the Dark Lord. They needed to oversee the event, in case something happened.

Hermione gathered herself, and her thoughts, as she paced the gazebo in a frantic circle.

There was no problem here. Ron and Harry had come to do a job, as they were expected to. Hermione had come on Order business, which she decided she would keep to herself. They would dismiss her concerns, as it was a little outlandish to believe Voldemort would pepper their mansion with Dark Artifacts.

They had no time for her childish pursuit of the man they'd already beaten, and they'd probably just roll their eyes and tell her she was being paranoid.

Paranoid, and naive.

Her heart as good as jumped out of her throat when she saw Ron stomp up the gazebo steps. He looked at her with the same gaze that had burned through her, when Krum had left her to get drinks. Unmatched jealousy and suspicion warped his otherwise handsome features.

With that, she was back at the Yule Ball.

"Do I wanna know?"

"There's nothing to know." Hermione worried her hands together, on the verge of tears. She hated how she cried when she was angry, it lessened the impact of her words.

"But you did choose to come here, right?" He added, softly, as that glimmer of maturity rose in him.

"I chose to come here, yes," Hermione nodded, her hands still fussing over nothing.

In the distance, she could see Draco, Harry and Lucius, in talks with several other Aurors. There were more smiles than she expected to see, as Draco gestured wide at the gardens. They laughed, and she wish she knew why.

Why had Ron been the one to come over?

"Good, well, not good. I don't know why you'd come here by choice." Ron shuddered, as he looked at the macabre statue of a snake eating a dove.

"I'm allowed to spend time with people, if I want to."

"Well, no shit, Hermione," Ron frowned, as he set his hands on his hips. He looked over at the Aurors, one of which was looking over at them. She had brown hair in a sensible braid, and seemed to be reading them with more care than Hermione liked. "I never said you couldn't."

"Well, actually, you have, multiple times."

"Krum? That was years ago," Ron turned redder than his hair.

"I meant more recently, with Oliver."

"Oh, well that's just common sense. He's a bloody teacher, Hermione."

"I was never after him!" Hermione stomped her foot, as she simmered in front of him. "You ruined my birthday for me, and you started a rumour that I was sleeping with a teacher."

"Wait, what d'you -- "

"No, I'm not finished!" Hermione pushed at her hair, which hadn't had anything done to it by Tripley. "I don't think you realize -- "

"Hold on," Ron fanned his hands out, to stop her in her tracks.

"I don't think you realize that your machismo, when you go out of your way to 'protect me'," she air-quoted the last phrase, "you hurt me, every single time. You punched Wood, for God knows what reason, and now you're tearing into me for coming as a date to a wedding as a -- a choice I made, for myself!"

"I came over here to see if you were okay, seeing as you sprinted away when you saw us." Ron ignored half of what she said, as he tunnel-visioned one what he deigned the biggest problem.

"I'm great." Hermione threw up her hands, before she mirrored his posture and put her hands on her hips. "I'm having a wonderful time with Draco and his family."

Hermione swore she could see him short circuit, as he glared daggers in Draco's direction. Draco was laughing with the Aurors, who seemed to have relaxed since their arrival. He seemed to be telling a story, or something similar, and they were eating it up. Even Harry had a smile on his lips, and it was only a little fake.

The Malfoy charm, as it were.

Instead of remaining tense and formal as Hermione would expect, they seemed to have been welcomed as fellow guests. They wouldn't drink, of course, as none of them had a glass in hand. But they didn't seem as threatening as when they arrived.

The silence between Hermione and Ron felt all the stronger as he closed the gap between them.

"I just worry about you, Hermione." Ron looked down at her, a furrow to his brow. "You give people the benefit of the doubt when all they do is hurt you. At some point you have to realize that someone doesn't deserve a second chance."

"You're right," Hermione tossed her head, as she met his eye. "I've given you too many chances."

And she stepped out of the gazebo, towards the group she'd run from.

And she took Draco's hand, and said nothing.

But she didn't miss the sleek smile that bloomed on his face, or the way his pale skin brightened at her touch.

* * *

"So you came here," Harry pointed at the ground, as he looked around the magnificent garden. "By choice."

"Yes Harry."

"And you held hands with Malfoy -- "

"By choice, yes."

Harry smiled at her, across the table. They were having a reception for the guests, before the ceremony itself. The Aurors mixed into the crowd, and she could hardly tell them apart from the actual guests. Except for Ron, who stood out because of his brilliant red-hair.

And the girl who was latched to his arm.

"She's nice," Harry said, so quiet Hermione almost missed it.

Hermione looked at Harry, then back to the girl. She was tanner than Hermione, with freckles and eyes so dark they looked black. It didn't take a genius to piece together the way she looked at Ron, and then glared in Hermione's direction.

"I think you'd get along," Harry sipped at some water, which he'd conjured himself. "Ron aside."

"I'm happy for him."

"I don't think it's anything serious," Harry paused, to wiggle his fingers. "But then again, I don't ask."

Hermione, Ron and Harry had a rather distant relationship when it came to, well, relationships. They never got into the details, given their primary experiences had been Harry and Ginny, as well as Ron and Hermione. When she contrasted it with the vivid imagery Emily painted for Bethany, or how Luna and Ginny spoke openly, it became clearer how prudish she might seem.

But there was no harm in privacy. It wasn't as if she wanted to know every little thing her friends got up to.

Especially not Ron.

"Have you always liked Malfoy, or..?" Harry cracked his wrist, which flashed his scar from Umbridge -- _'I must not tell lies'_.

"I don't know," Hermione said, softly. "I don't think I like him, or that I ever have."

Harry smiled, which she didn't expect. "Whatever you say, 'Mione."

It occurred to her that he was close with Ginny, and Ginny knew too much. She narrowed her eyes at Harry, as Draco himself glided over. He seemed to be in his element, surrounded by others of his creed, though he didn't look relaxed.

Rather, he looked concerned, as he gestured to a seat at their table. Harry kicked out the seat and waved for him to sit. He realized too late this was impolite, and coughed to cover up his lack of manners.

Hermione felt that, honestly.

"You could have brought Ginny, you know." Draco folded his hands on the table, as he looked around the formal dining area. There were too many people that Hermione half-recognized, and she was worried that the familiarity was from a battle setting.

"Don't often think to invite my girlfriend to work assignments."

Draco shrugged, and looked to Hermione. She'd not really looked at him, not since she rushed over and held his hand to make a point.

"It's beautiful." She perked, as she gestured around the room.

"Yes, well, mother doesn't skimp." His hand fidgeted on the table, as he seemed unsure of what to do.

The three of them sat in companionable silence, as the room was alight with laughter and stories. Hermione was reminded of Fleur and Bill's wedding, though the couple hadn't yet arrived. She looked around the room, unable to pick one element to focus on.

There were bouquets of white roses on each table, and a centerpiece at the front. She could see the crystal decor and the silverware laid out, and even a few ex-Hogwarts students. She'd also spotted Pansy and Daphne, who had actually smiled at her.

A massive pile of presents sat on one table, with most of them being mismatched yet beautiful. One set of presents had arrived as a group, with all the same wrappings. They were massive, too, and Hermione had to wonder what the gift was.

And who had sent it.

And this was why she'd not been ready for Draco to pick her hand back up, though his gaze was anywhere except for her. She allowed it, and even thumbed the back of his hand.

His hands shook a little, she noticed. But they tended to shake, unless he was working on potions or on a broom.

She didn't need to ask to know why.

* * *

The ceremony itself was beautiful, and the bride and groom were stunning. Theo's sister had long brown hair, twirled up to the crown of her head. Her dress was more in line with a Muggle wedding dress, though it was a mixture of silvers and greens. The man she was with was a little older, with a scarred face and a crooked smile. He had a suit on, one Hermione could easily see Draco in, but she pushed that thought right back out.

Hermione laughed and cried along with the crowd during the vows, though she wasn't familiar with either party. She clapped when she was meant to, and she cheered when they walked down the aisle. She said her congratulations, alongside Draco, as the couple made their rounds.

Draco was busy, as he spoke with old acquaintances. They laughed about things Hermione had never known, about people she'd never met. The mood was so light and friendly that she'd forgotten all about the nature of the crowd.

And she wondered how different they really were, Pure-bloods and Muggleborns, if it could feel so familiar.

The Aurors remained interspersed with the guests. Ron and Harry had taken to doing trips around the mansion, through the gardens. She'd see Ron when he sped past, or if he chose to linger a few seconds too long as she stood beside Draco.

"I'm sorry, it hasn't been that exciting."

"No, it's been beautiful," Hermione cut him off, with a wave of her hand.

"We were meant to have more speeches and such, but they seem to have been cancelled," Draco glanced at his wrist, to check the time.

It was late, and the night had fallen evenly by now. They'd been married at twilight, and given a few short, smart speeches about love and their future.

"Were you really going to invite me, last weekend?" Hermione tossed her head, to move her hair from her face.

"I meant to, but I fell into old habits."

"I don't know if implying I gave a teacher -- " Hermione shook her head, and laughed, when she shouldn't have. "How much of it was jealousy?"

Draco pulled a strange face, like he'd lost at chess.

"I'd rather you be honest with me, about everything." She blinked up at him, his white-blonde hair contrasted with the midnight blue of the sky. "I'll work it out on my own otherwise, and I'll be twice as annoyed."

"I forget how clever you can be." He drawled, as if it were the worst thing in the world.

"I don't know how you could forget," she nudged him. "I'm on top of you for a reason."

Draco laughed, louder than she liked.

"Classes -- top, class, don't -- you know what I meant, please don't," Hermione fussed with his shirt as she tried to find a way to shake him. She was laughing too much for it to be real worry, and he caught her elbow and waist in his hands.

"The night is young," he exhaled, dreamily, as he swayed her side to side.

Hermione buried her face in his chest, because at least that was somewhere she'd not have to look at him. He swayed them for a few seconds longer before he adjusted their posture, to slip his hand into hers.

She followed out of reflex, as he led her to the dance floor. The moonlight above was brighten than it was in London, somehow. She wondered if it'd been enchanted that way, to show off their wealth.

But she wasn't given any time to think about that, as she locked eyes with Draco.

He was lean and tall, in a well-cut suit and expensive shoes. But something in how he held himself suggested that these were merely extras. She wagered he'd look confident in a potato sack, and for that, she could respect him.

It was like the garden earlier, where he held her close and she didn't mind.

Other couples swayed and danced, to differing degrees. Some were well-practiced, while others were either too old or too young to move with grace. She followed his lead, clumsily, and he didn't say anything edgewise.

They came apart as the song ended, and Draco bowed his head. His gaze spread across the crowd until it locked onto his father. He mumbled something, about being right back, and sped off. She watched him go, confused as she had been earlier.

Had she done something wrong?

Draco and his father were talking, quickly and in whispers. Draco had lost all the calm in his stance.

She lingered on the dance floor, unsure if she should follow his lead. He'd said he'd be right back, but she didn't like the looks of the conversation they were having. Beside Lucius was Mr. Nott, a man that had attacked Hermione on the night of the prophecy.

Recognition bloomed in his eyes as Hermione approached, which was mirrored by Lucius who stood by his side.

The only difference now was that Hermione was with Draco, in some sense.

"I didn't mean to steal him away from you," Lucius said, cordially.

Draco squared his jaw, round and round, as he tried to process whatever they'd been talking about. She presumed it had something to do with her. Perhaps they'd been mocking her, which wouldn't really bother her too greatly.

"Enjoying yourself, Ms. Granger?" Mr. Nott asked, as though he couldn't care less about her answer.

"It was a beautiful ceremony." Hermione looked up at Draco, unsure.

"Yes, we pride ourselves on our spectacles." Lucius smiled, which made Draco step in front of her.

"Let's go, Hermione," Draco put a hand on her waist, to guide her.

"Oh, so soon?" Lucius frowned. "She wouldn't want to stay for the fireworks?"

Draco tugged Hermione, though she didn't budge. She instead moved to stand closer to Lucius, her chin lifted and her eyes narrowed up at him.

"I've had a wonderful time, your wife and son have been so accommodating." She had her hands bunched at her sides. "Wish I could say the same for you."

"I allowed you to remain," he countered, confused as he looked down at her.

"There's a difference between being made to feel like a guest rather than a nuisance," she waved her hand at him, loosely.

Lucius had snatched up her forearm, to flash it to Mr. Nott.

"See, I told you, didn't I?" He laughed, creamy and low. She hated his laugh, more and more.

Hermione yanked her arm back, and cradled her forearm to her chest. She shot a confused look up at Lucius, then back at Draco.

Her scar.

Mr. Nott and Lucius laughed, as if it were such fun, that she had a scar that said 'mudblood'.

Hermione stumbled away, towards the house, as she needed to get away from that dreadful man. She could see Harry, who shot her a confused look as she vanished inside. And although she stopped when she got inside, Draco snatched her arm up and kept her moving.

The party outside was still in full swing. There was laughter, bright and light.

"Did I do something?"

And it was Fleur and Bill's wedding, through and through.

A window beside them shattered inward.

The thing about a house as beautiful as this one, a mansion in the countryside, is that you believe it to be sacred. It was too beautiful to taint, as if you had to be so delicate with it. Hermione couldn't even breathe properly in here, let alone cast spells. But as the window on the far rained shards of glass down onto them, Hermione was forced to relearn the same lesson, again.

No where was safe; nothing was sacred.

Draco stared past her, wide eyed and fearful.

"You have to go," his grip had turned from concerned to unkind, as he yanked her along.

The laughter outside had morphed into screams. She didn't know what it was, whether the guests had turned on the Aurors, or vice versa.

"You knew this was going to happen, didn't you." Hermione said, coldly, as she yanked her wand out of a slim pocket on the side of her robes.

"I didn't, I swear," Draco stared at her, open-mouthed. Before he could speak further, a cackle sounded through the air, and they were faced with a perversion of the Death Eater masks.

The silver was cracked and sealed together with oozing tar, that shaped and reshaped. Worst of all, they didn't have _hands_; they had onyx bones, lashed together with black sinew and rotten flesh, and Hermione almost threw up as they approached.

Draco shoved Hermione behind him, his wand out as he pointed to the ceiling.

The house caved in above the figure, which flattened.

But rather than be killed on impact, the figure seemed to fall to pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle. Bones rolled and a few feet away climbed, reforming the figure anew. 

Perhaps they'd been human, once, but they weren't any longer.

"_Traitor..._" It's breath rattled, between empty cheeks. "_You have forsaken The Dark Lord._" The voice was familiar, though she couldn't place why.

"Is that _necromancy_?" Hermione stared down the bones, unsure if it had enough agency to recognize them. "That's so very illegal!"

"I don't think that's our concern right now," Draco pulled her after him, as the bony apparition followed. Several others appeared, though they varied in height. Hermione had to wonder if these were really the dead come to life, or just an illusion, or -- 

They burst through a door, Hermione shoved in first, and followed by Draco. He slammed the door, and the impact of the bones could be heard. Several bones had pierced the door, and wriggled against the split wood.

"What is this?" Hermione had her wand out, as she panicked on the spot.

A tooth scrambled under the door and started pelting Draco.

He swatted at it, and managed to catch it. He was bleeding wherever it had impacted, as the root was razor sharp. Draco's blood came out black and pus-ridden, rather than bright red. He wrapped the tooth up in a handkerchief to save himself from it, as several other smaller bones rolled beneath the door.

The bones that had lodged into the door retracted, and instead an arm came through, fully formed. It lashed out, in search of whatever it could grab. Draco backed away from it, his wand at the ready.

"Look," Hermione pointed at it. She saw how it flinched away from her, as she approached it. But she saw enough; there was a Dark Mark, as fresh as if it were still on the arm of the living.

"Hermione, take this," he placed the wadded up handkerchief into her hand, and unfurled a piece of green silk. "Give it to Snape."

Before she had a chance to ask anything, a small silver key land in her open palm. A strong sensation of being yanked by her bellybutton overtook her, and she felt ill and anxious all at once.

And the manor left her vision, alongside Draco and the door that had burst open.

When things stilled, she was back in the Malfoy's home, in Hogsmeade, with an onyx tooth and a silver key.

But no Draco.


	26. of all the places, of all the times.

> _**September 26th, 1998. Though it's so late... When does tomorrow become today?** _

"Do my detentions mean nothing to you?"

"Oh shut up, Snape." Ayers shot him a look, in the dimly lit lounge of the Malfoy's home in Hogsmeade.

"What do you think it is?" Hermione asked, in a small voice.

She hadn't summoned them, but they'd turned up within ten minutes of her arrival. They found her crouched by the fireplace, exhausting the supply of Floo powder, which she had thrown countless handfuls of into the fire.

It wasn't until Ayers eased her away that she realized it was hopeless, and that her best friends were stranded without her.

That Draco could very well be dead because she'd not acted quickly enough.

Snape looked over the handkerchief, which Hermione had dropped on the floor beside her. He retained his looks as Selwyn, but in the present company, the the secrecy was lost.

With long, deft fingers he peeled back the monogrammed silk, to reveal the onyx tooth with silver seams. It was covered in blood, which was Draco's.

As he inspected it, Ayers checked over Hermione. They both remained silent, as Snape worked.

Though _silent_ wasn't quite how she'd describe it.

The ringing in her ears hadn't dissipated, nor had the weight of her failure to help others. She shouldn't have let Draco spirit her away with a Portkey. She could have been there, to help them, she was so good at defensive magic, she was an asset, she _was_.

The little silver key remained on the table between them all, etched with latin she'd not yet bothered to read.

"Was there someone controlling this creature?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Snape made a sound from the back of his throat.

Hermione looked on, her mouth pursed and her eyes wide. Her cheeks were raw and red, and no matter how many messages she willed through her ring, all she'd received back was "_we're ok_". No indication, of who had replied, and she hated the rings all over again.

She noticed that Snape wriggled his ring off to put it into his pocket instead. He shot Hermione a nasty look.

She didn't stop sending messages, again and again, until she got another answer.

None came.

Ayers and Snape bickered back and forth with eye contact alone, though Snape seemed more amused than angry. Ayers, however, was scrunched up on the Malfoy's rich green velvet couch beside Snape, her bare feet on the cushions.

Ayers had the same pajama bottoms as Hermione, she realized.

The ones with the owls, with the books and glasses.

Hermione sat on the black oak floor in front of them, ramrod straight and terrified of the place. She wanted to be back at the mansion, badly, but had no idea how to achieve it.

"We can't just sit here," Hermione wailed, out of the blue. "We have to work out what those things were."

"I suspect Draco will be able to tell us what they were," Snape smiled. "Assuming he survives."

Ayers smacked Snape's thigh with her bare foot. He looked livid, but simmered down when she met his eye.

"Be nice to her." Ayers smacked him several more times, gentler, and he endured it. Her bright green eyes flashed behind her round glasses, and Hermione saw what Snape saw.

_Lily._

He rolled his jaw and straightened his posture, to look at Ayers from a higher vantage.

"There's nothing we can do; nothing more than the Aurors, or those who're at the mansion."

"We have to do something!" Hermione shouted back, now on her feet.

"Hermione, please," Ayers exhaled, loudly, her hands framed on her forehead. "This is very bad, but, I don't... we can't just go to the Malfoy mansion in France, the wards alone would prevent it. You can't Apparate there all willy-nilly."

"And their Floo network is regulated by the Ministry. They need written permission to set up times."

"So what, we just -- "

"Wait." Snape said, simply. "And see."

* * *

* * *

> _ **September 27th, 1998. How long I've waited...** _

When Hermione agreed to wait, she hadn't expected it to take so long.

The next morning she received an owl from Mrs. Malfoy, and one from Harry. Each said mild platitudes, no details, just that they were all safe and well, and no one she knew had been killed.

Injuries, yes, but -- that she knew? So people had died.

Mrs. Malfoy had apologized for how rude the end of the party had been, and for Lucius's show of her scar. She wondered who had made mention of it, but it paled in comparison to the literal walking dead that had haunted the halls of their mansion.

She went on to say that she needn't worry about the skeletons, and that it was just a misunderstanding. It was all needless padding with no real information. She punctuated it with an invitation to tea at the end of October, at their main mansion, rather than their now-destroyed French mansion.

Hermione tossed the letter aside and pulled over Harry's letter.

_Hermione,_

_Ron and I are fine. Can't say much, but we'll talk soon, I'll fill you in._

_Much love and be safe, Harry_

Hermione paced like a lion at the zoo, up and down her dorms.

Pansy and Daphne returned Sunday night. Each had newly healed scars, scratches and bruises, but they looked mostly healed. Neither girl said anything to Hermione, and Hermione didn't want to press the issue.

She wondered if they knew some of the people who'd died, or if they were some just unfortunate casualties. She pushed it aside, and exchanged a sympathetic smile with Pansy.

Pansy burst into tears.

It wasn't until Monday morning that she got any real information, and it was from that awful Rita Seeker.

_Tragedy Strikes At Wedding Of The Century_

_On September 26th, 1998, one Camille Nott and her Muggleborn fiance Angelo Picard were due to tie the knot. As the daughter of a known Death Eater (who had been cleared of all charges), the union caused quite a stir. Not only for those in the Pure-blood circles, but in the wizarding community at large. It was to be a beautiful event, as the crown jewel in a new era of tolerance and compassion._

_But as we came to learn, it was merely a funnel for those who defected from the Dark Lord, thought dead only several months ago. Guests claimed to have seen the man, in flesh and blood, writhing in the sky as bony apparitions burst out of some beautiful bountiful wedding gifts._

_These reports aren't backed up with any evidence, though as we know from the past, the Dark Lord has an interesting way of reappearing when we least expect it, in ways we cannot catalog. One guest snapped a photo of what they believe to be the monster himself, above the processions._

_We found The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice at the core of the party -- could this have been a warning to the boy, who has recently come into focus as one of the most promising Aurors of his time? Or has he failed us all, by pretending the Dark Lord was really dead, to buy us a few short months of happiness?_

_Eight have been confirmed dead, with more injured. We were unable to get an eye-witness account, as we were politely removed from the party before we could speak to anyone. Any guests who were brutally attacked this night, we'd love to hear your stories! The more details, the better!_

_Please contact Rita Skeeter at -- _

Hermione scrunched the Daily Prophet up, out of reflex. She flattened it out, and stared at the supposed photo from that night.

But it wasn't Voldemort, as she'd known him. He looked younger, like the photo that had been used in the Prophet months ago, the one she'd drawn devil horns and a tail onto. A Dark Mark lit up the sky behind him, flashing like lighting. He held a staff rather than a wand, which struck her as peculiar.

But it couldn't be him.

It couldn't.

Hermione fussed with her hair, and flattened the Prophet for later. She would read it, and re-read it, and pick apart all the reasons it couldn't be true.

* * *

* * *

> _**October 3rd, 1998. ... for you to return.** _

A week sped by, with detentions with Selwyn, and confused glances from Ayers. She noticed that Defense Against the Dark Arts with Ms. Proudfoot seemed different, as she had become so much more severe. All the teachers had, but it seemed that Ms. Proudfoot had known one of the Aurors who'd been affected at the wedding. McGonagall and Flickwick seemed tenser in their lessons, as did Professor Vector.

She also endured the looks from other students, as if she were to blame for the supposed return of Voldemort. This hoax by Rita Skeeter sat wrong with her, as she went through the available textbooks about everything from draugr to zombies. The thing that seemed closest was the Revenant or a wight, but she didn't know enough about necromancy and any books on the matter wouldn't be in the Hogwarts library.

The only books that mentioned them were about how they should be avoided at all costs.

(So helpful.)

She had stayed up late each night, to work on essays that she couldn't do with Selwyn in detention. He'd barred her from doing anything in those sessions, and she had to sit in miserable silence for two hours at a time. By the end of Double Potions on Friday, where she'd worked alone on some cure-all elixirs they'd meant to make the previous week, she was done.

Just, done.

Because Draco hadn't come back. He'd not sent an owl, or checked in, or anything.

All she had was the silver key he'd given her, which she'd cast _reducto_ on. She'd added it to the silver chain she'd worn the ring on before, so it acted as a dainty necklace and a morbid reminder.

"_Me in lucem de tenebris._"

That was the Latin, as she'd been able to decipher. She'd translated it, to find that it read; "_I light the dark._"

Saturday evening, well past midnight, she heard the dorm's door crack open. The leafy obstructions by the door kept her from seeing who it was at first, but she tensed and relaxed as she saw it was Draco himself.

She sat, silently, frozen to her spot. She searched him in those few quiet seconds, for anything she could see that had changed. The only difference was several newly healed scars on his face and neck, which looked like they'd been awful, before.

He'd not expected her to be awake, given the surprise on his face.

Though the surprise could have been from how she sprinted over to him, and kissed him.

She hadn't meant to do that, in her oversized Gryffindor sweater that she'd gotten in first year, the one her mother had foolishly told her she'd grow into. She hadn't meant to tug him down by the front of his robes, to catch his lips in hers while he babbled ten apologies at once and flinched in fear. She hadn't meant for this to be their first kiss, spurred on by a week apart, and by grief.

They could have done this in the garden after they danced, or under the moonlight on the way back from Potions, or at her birthday when he'd smiled at her like she was more beautiful than the stars above. They had been in such beautiful clothes, all made up and excited, alive and happy, and the memory would have been perfect, like a fairy tale.

But this was real life, and she'd had too much garlic bread for dinner as it was a comfort food, and he'd not washed his hair in a week, from how it felt in her hand.

But she didn't care. It shouldn't have happened like this, after a week apart, after she'd almost lost him, after he'd almost died.

It shouldn't have happened like this.

But it happened, once, twice, and she couldn't count after that.

Perhaps it was the easier way to go about things, she thought, as he pried some space between them. She stared up at him, not ready to speak, not sure that she wanted to hear what had happened, what she could have done to save those eight people.

It was priceless, the way he stared down at her, like she'd been possessed.

And maybe she had been.

Except then he caught onto her logic, about how it'd be nice not to talk for a few seconds, and yanked her up by the backs of her thighs.

"Wait, wait, wait -- "

Hermione could feel Draco tense, and allow her back onto her feet.

"Sorry, you're fine, that was very fun -- "

"Thank you so much," Draco drawled.

"Shut up -- no, actually, the opposite, what -- okay!" Hermione blushed to the roots of her hair, and she wasn't alone in that. Draco was also flushed, in his cheekbones and throat. "You, me, talk, now."

"Oh, did I snog your grammar out of you? Have to make note of that," he scrawled on his palm, as if taking notes with his index finger.

"You! I've been so worried about you!" Hermione's hands raised, her fingers angled like claws. "Where have you been! What the hell happened!" She slapped him on the chest, gently, and he grabbed her wrists. He planted a kiss to each one, and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Can we not talk -- "

"Talk now. We talk now." She added, to clarify her grammar, as it was so important to this git.

Draco worried his tongue at the corner of his mouth, as if he'd rather shag the Giant Squid than talk. She didn't relent, and instead yanked at his wrist. Their hands came together easily, and he followed her without question.

She led him down the stairs and into the girls' lounge, and into the closet designed to hold their bulkier items such as cauldrons and brooms.

"Don't," Hermione warned, her finger jabbed in his direction.

Draco had his mouth half-open, and a playful smirk in place.

Hermione cast a silencing charm on the door, and pressed her back to it. She crossed her arms and ankles, and looked up at him. "What the hell is going on."

"Well, this is just cruel."

Hermione stared up at him, as he maintained distance by mere virtue of respect for her request to talk. 

"I was at St. Mungos, for a few days."

"Why didn't -- "

"Why didn't I have someone tell you?" He raised a brow at her. "I didn't tell anyone. Only my mother knows, and the doctor I saw."

"Why?"

Draco exhaled, through his nose. "Blood curse."

Hermione stressed her eyebrows, higher and higher.

"I think, whatever those were, were out to exact a blood curse." He pointed to his face, which bore the blackened veins and spots, from where the teeth had impacted.

"Because..."

"Blood traitor," he waved a hand, and yanked his sleeve up. The gesture didn't come easy to him, as he showed off the ink. The Dark Mark sat on his forearm, the skin all around it raw and bubbled. Like it had been freshly burned into his arm, the black inset into angry red skin. 

Hermione reached towards it, and he drew back.

"Do you know what's in the ink of a Dark Mark?"

"I imagine some form of, um... Pigment."

"His blood. Mixed with the bone ash of Muggleborns he'd killed, for _dramatic flair_. Usually whichever Muggleborn you killed to prove your loyalty, but he was ever so generous and forewent that stipulation," Draco shifted his arm closer to her, and pointed to it.

"It's..."

"The blacker the ink, the more power he has. This was almost non-existent, after Hogwarts in May." Draco let his arm drop, and shook his sleeve back into place. "It's black, Hermione. Blacker than before."

"Why didn't you at least tell me that you were okay?"

"Because I wasn't okay." Draco hissed out an exhale through clenched teeth, as he tried to relax and failed. He rubbed his hand over his face, as if to catch his own bad mood.

"Why do you think it's a blood curse?" Hermione asked, softly.

"Because He warned us about it," Draco worried on the spot, his foot tapping and his hands clenched and relaxed. Anxious energy overtook him, as he seemed to vibrate in front of her. "My family, Pansy's, the Notts, we're all blood traitors, to the Mark, to Him. And we Vowed, our allegiances, our lives, our everything."

"And..."

"And I guess He's back, and he's pissed."

"He can't be alive, the Prophecy, all that Harry did..."

"So he's got another Horcrux. That's what McGonagall thinks. That's why she told you to get closer to me, isn't it?" Draco snapped. "One that was hidden somewhere, one not even Dumbledore knew about."

"How do you know what McGonagall said?"

"Snape told me," he waved a hand. "But I believe that Nott's daughter marrying a Muggleborn alerted him, somehow, or he was told about it."

"Your father told me to enjoy myself," Hermione spoke, slow and cautious. "And he said it'd be my last. Not to mention how he spoke of fireworks, right before it all began."

Draco's nostrils flared, but he didn't speak. She watched the thoughts bounce around in his head, as if he were trying to angle an argument against her.

"I'm not saying he arranged it, or wanted it to happen, but maybe he knows something -- "

"You really think my father would do something to intentionally put myself in harms way? Or his friends, for the matter?"

"Wouldn't be the first time he did that -- he was the one who brought you into Voldemort's ranks, isn't he." Hermione's cheeks flared red, as she stared up at Draco in disbelief. "He couldn't wait to get me alone, to insinuate I liked you because you were rich, and call me _'mudblood'._"

"It's late, Hermione." He dismissed, as he ran his hands down his face. "I need to shower, so unless you wish to _join_ me -- "

"I'm confident in your ability to wash yourself," Hermione spun, to leave, but he caught her wrist. This was awful, as it left her facing a solid wooden hawthorn door, with him pressed against her back.

"I'll speak to him," Draco whispered, against her ear. "I don't doubt you -- it's just been a long week."

"Thank you," Hermione breathed, as she felt much like the ring in being incapable of saying more than a few words.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, which shifted to her cheek, and before she quite caught herself she found she'd turned back to face him.

What started as a quick peck, as if to say good night, devolved. He bracketed her chin between his fingers, which stopped shaking enough with the force he pulled her with. He kissed her, greedily, as if they'd not get another chance.

It wasn't as desperate or clumsy as before, and she melted into him with ease. He'd always felt so cold to her, but now he felt red-hot. She wondered if that was from the curses he'd had inflicted on him, but she wasn't able to think much when he nipped at the pulse point beneath her ear.

Her eyes fluttered shut, as she'd open them a crack to make sure it was still him, and this was real. It seemed very unreal, to be secreted away in a broom closet on a Saturday evening with her academic rival. His hands were warm against her ribs, as he fussed with the oversized sweater. She wasn't sure who started what, but she ended it as soon as she felt his bare thumb against her hip.

"Okay," Hermioned laughed, softly. "I need sleep, as do you, I imagine."

"Hm, sleep, after the week I've had? No, I'll probably be up all night."

"Oh," Hermione sounded sad, for him.

"Sure I can't tempt you with that shower, _Granger_?"

"Sleep well, good night, thank you, for the speaking, not the kisses, that'd be strange, to thank you for a kiss -- " she slapped around the door, blind in the dark, until she managed to find the doorknob. She sped out like a rocket, towards her dorm. She tripped a few of the steps, and flung herself into her bed, and only then realized that she'd kissed Draco Malfoy.

By choice. Sober. Completely willingly. Multiple times. In a broom closet.

And worst of all, he'd kissed her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: is it too soon for them to kiss  
Also me: it's been 100k words  
Me: HMMM....... idk about that buddy.


	27. give nothing your all.

> _ **October 7th, 1998. Wait, that isn't right.** _

Despite her appearance at the Nott-Picard wedding, no one except those in attendance knew Hermione had been there. This included Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Daphne and Draco.

She'd seen so little of them, this week.

Both Pansy and Daphne lost their mothers in the attack, as part of the eight confirmed casualties. The girls hadn't been around since their return the previous Sunday, not in classes anyway. They were given the week off prior, while Draco had been away, though she'd seen Pansy in Charms once.

They kept to the dorms, mostly.

Theo had lost his sister, but they'd not been close in age nor in familial ties, from what Hermione could tell. People didn't wish him the best, or check on him. He didn't seek it out, either.

Parts of this came through the Daily Prophet, which was dedicated to outing all the victims and their ties to the Dark Lord. Each victim was linked to a Death Eater, and they'd all been women. Whether they were the wives or children of the marked men, they fell the same.

The Daily Prophet had to publish an apology, after they'd shown a photo of dead bodies "by mistake".

Despite the eye witness accounts, and the photos that came forward, Hermione remained unmentioned.

It seemed no one had any idea Hermione had been there, as Draco's date of all things. Or if they knew, they'd not mentioned her. She was exempt from any looks from people, and no one asked her any questions. She preferred this anonymity, as she had been the focal point for Rita Skeeter too many times in the past.

Though, it'd have been nice, to be known as Draco's date, or Draco's anything, wouldn't it?

But that was the problem. 

Draco was avoiding her.

It was much like it had been, before, where he'd become reclusive. He refused to look at her, except when he thought she'd not notice. She stared holes through him across the Great Hall, and in each class.

The little black spots left from the teeth had vanished, but he had no issue with glamour charms. He'd hidden them, though she wondered if it was for vanity or for self-preservation.

She'd ask him, if he'd stop avoiding her.

Had she done something wrong?

Monday, she'd assumed he was just feeling ill. He wasn't in any classes, and hadn't come out of his dorm.

Tuesday, she hadn't a chance to speak to him, as their classes remained theoretical. He vanished whenever students began to pack up. She would pursue him, but he'd take to the dungeons, and he knew them better than her.

She had hoped their double period of DADA would be practical, but unfortunately it wasn't. Ms. Proudfoot led them through the origin of the three Unforgivable Curses, the first wizards who had used them, and how they came to be Unforgivable.

She mentioned there were over twenty 'Unforgivable' spells, but seventeen of them had been lost to time, and would remain lost. Voldemort had claimed to have discovered them again, but it was just another way for him to strengthen his image of cruelty and evil. He'd never demonstrated them, or if he had, it'd never been public.

By Wednesday, she lost all patience.

She sat beside him at the Slytherin table for breakfast. He left seconds later, red and gold now stranded among green and silver.

"Are you lost, Granger?" Blaise asked, languid in his morning state.

"I suppose I am," she looked at Theo, who didn't meet her eye.

The two boys looked at her, ice in their gaze, as she'd survived, she'd gotten out. She ate her eggs, and excused herself.

By their double period of DADA in the afternoon, Hermione found her chance.

Hermione sat down next to Draco, as if it weren't a big deal, because it shouldn't have been a big deal. He didn't move this time, or walk away. But he didn't look at her, either, and Hermione was at a loss for words.

"Today," Ms. Proudfoot began, her tiny hands lofted and her smile wide. "We have a very interesting challenge for you all."

Hermione raised her brow, as the walls cracked open behind the tiny professor.

"A puzzle."

A murmur of dissent overtook the students, who were usually quiet and attentive for the Auror.

Hermione stared down the stone cave embedded into the wall, and then Draco.

"Each pair of you," she pointed to each of them. "Will go into this room, and decipher the way to get out. You may try any spells, any curses, anything you think may help you escape, but you cannot say what allowed you to escape once you get out; I want everyone to discover this for themselves."

"Us!" McRory said, as he snatched up Ginny's hand. "We'll go first!"

Ginny screamed with her eyes.

"Oh, good ol' Gryffindor one-two!" Proudfoot sighed, happily. "How young and foolish you all are."

The Gyrffindors all shared a collective double take, as the tiny, sweet woman talked down to their house values.

"I mean, it's obvious, you just -- " McRory began, wand out.

And the walls slammed shut.

"Now, while they're working it out, I want each of you devise a strategy."

"Isn't it unfair?" Hermione had her hand up, to placate her speaking out of turn.

"Hm?"

"We get time to rationalize, and they have to do it with no warning."

"McRory rushed into sacrificing himself, and Ginny, without waiting for me to finish. Life's unfair, I suppose!" Proudfoot smiled.

Draco snorted.

Hermione turned to him with whip-crack speed, and he shrunk away from her.

The rest of their class had begun to strategize, with Blaise and Theo in the midst of constructing a battering ram from a desk. Ms. Proudfoot stepped in, and disassembled it before it fully formed.

"So."

"Something the matter?"

"Obviously!" Hermione snapped, and she had to remind herself she was in a classroom, with their peers. She worked her jaw in tight circles, as she settled her hands flat on the desk.

"Perhaps another time -- "

"No, not another time, you've avoided me for three days, and I want to know what I did." Hermione said, plain and simple. "I want to know _why_."

"Nott! Zabini!"

Ginny and McRory had stumbled out of the room, with the ends of Ginny's hair on fire. McRory was missing an eyebrow. They said nothing.

Theo and Blaise looked less confident now.

"Have I been avoiding you?" He parroted back, as he leaned back against the stone wall. They were in the back corner, at the back of the room. Draco had picked the spot, as it allowed him the best place to lounge and look like a jerk.

(Perhaps she was biased.)

"You have been," Hermione looked around the room, at the chatter. He was correct, it wasn't a good time, not at all, but she hadn't been able to speak to him at all. "I'm sorry, I suppose. If I did something wrong."

Draco shot her a confused look.

"If I overstepped, or if I -- I shouldn't have done that, you were -- "

An explosion sounded behind the wall, but the wall remained in tact. Ginny glared at it, and at Ms. Proudfoot.

"Sorry, shouldn't have?"

"Are you going to play dumb about this?" Hermione sniped back, her hands flat on the table in front of her.

"I'm not stupid, I knew this was coming." He adjusted his posture, with his finger against his temple and cheekbone. He looked at her, disappointed for reasons she couldn't place.

"What are you talking about?"

"That it was a spur of the moment thing, and a mistake," he waved a hand at her, dismissive. "Save it, Granger."

Hermione sat, her palms faced upward on the table, and she lost her point. She wanted to yell at him, or to throw so many examples back in his face, of how he was the one at fault, and she'd done nothing wrong.

But she was interrupted as the wall slid open, as gentle as breeze.

Which made Theo and Blaise's exit, as a crumpled pile of robes and burnt skin, almost comedic.

"Longbottom... Spruce."

A pretty Gryffindor girl and Neville disappeared behind the wall, and to Hermione's surprise, the girl seemed more excited than Neville.

Unlike the others, the door opened within twenty seconds rather than five minutes, and they were unscathed.

Neville was red around his ears, and looked at the floor.

The girl seemed confused, but pleased.

Hermione shot Proudfoot a withering look. This was another one of her ethics lessons, wrapped up in magic. She would admire her, were she not so lofty about it.

"We'd like to go," Draco stood, and went towards the hole in the wall.

"But we haven't -- " Hermione rushed after him, red in the face. "We didn't strategize."

And the wall slid shut.

Bright blue letters formed, above the wall. It was the only light in the room, which gave the place an eerie yet cozy feeling.

"_Give nothing your all._"

Hermione squinted at the phrase, her wand at the ready.

"That's a little depressing, isn't it." Draco picked at his teeth. "Don't try at anything, what's the point?"

Hermione cast a few simple spells, to unlock, to end incantation, but they each fizzled against the stone.

"Oh here," Draco rolled his eyes, and cast _reducto_, which cracked against the wall and bounced back at them. Neither of them anticipated the spell to ricochet back at them. He'd managed to shove her out of the way, while she'd cast a shield charm.

And he raised his wand to try again.

"No, no, stop!" Hermione swatted him, and caught his wrists.

She'd not been this close to him, not since they'd been in the broom closet together, where he'd whispered by her ear, where he'd kissed her last.

"Why'd you think it was a mistake?"

"Pardon?" Draco said, as if it were a curse word.

"You decided, on your own, that I regretted the kiss, and that I was going to tell you it's a mistake."

"Was it not?" Draco's hand twitched, against the pressure of her grip.

"I always thought you were smart, given your grades were comparable to mine -- "

"Please, your modesty overwhelms me."

"But you're clearly the biggest _idiot_ in the whole school if you'd decide to have an opinion on my behalf, especially one so incorrect."

Draco pieced together her intent, though he didn't seem relieved. Rather, he yanked his wrists back, and looked down at her with a sadness she'd never seen in him.

"If there's something else at work here, something that's changed your mind, just, tell me." Hermione felt a tear roll down her cheek. "Because I don't know what I did wrong, but I'd like to fix it, if I could."

"It was a bit of fun, sure, but that's it. Fun." Draco swallowed, hard. "What did you think it was?"

"You don't mean that." Hermione glared up at him. She'd been so stupid, to think she was the exception to his toxicity.

Draco shrugged one arm, his hand fanned out towards her, low.

And the cave reopened, in the absence of their spells and hexes.

Hermione walked out, snatched up her bag and left class. It was a waste of time, anyway.

"_Give nothing your all,_" she repeated, breathless as she rushed to the dorms. "Makes sense."

* * *

"So the whole _thing_ was about how sometimes, you just have to be patient, and let things sort themselves out." Ginny tossed the Quaffle into the air, as she laid on her back. She tossed it and caught it, in rotation, one leg interlocked with the other.

"I worry that the Defense against the Dark Arts classes are becoming a little high concept, and more about morality than spellwork." Hermione rested against the couch in the Gryffindor Common room, her History of Magic essay in front of her.

"A lot of Dark Arts is about, like, intent?" Ginny said. "Y'know, sometimes thinking about things, and talking, rather than just lobbing spells around. 'Cause if your partner," Ginny coughed, loudly, to cover herself saying 'McRory'. "If they decide to cast spells willy-nilly, or if they rush into a situation... You get hurt, too. You're both liable for the actions of one of you... Y'know?"

Hermione rolled her tongue in her mouth, as she spelled out a goblin by the name of_ Nubuckineaseanuous_.

"So, do you wanna talk about -- "

"No."

"Draco?"

"No."

Ginny made a face, as she narrowed her eyes and raised her brows. "You did kinda stumble out of that cave thing in tears, and then ran out of class, so..."

Hermione crossed out the goblin's name, which magically erased itself, and she tried again.

"Okay."

Hermione worried her quill, back and forth, as she re-read a passed.

"If you're sure -- "

"It's just," Hermione slapped down her quill, red along her neck. "I think he broke up with me, and we weren't even dating."

Ginny dropped the Quaffle on her face.

Hermione shot a look around the common-room, which was blissfully empty. It was late, around half past eleven. They were waiting for Harry and Ron to make a call through the Floo network in the Headmistress's office. It'd been arranged by McGonagall, given the reports about Voldemort.

Ginny slid from the couch to the floor, to grab Hermione by her shoulders. "Excuse me?"

"We weren't dating." She looked at the fire, her stomach in endless circles. "I just, went with him, to... That wedding..."

"You were _there?_"

"Yes, well -- "

Hermione broke, and told Ginny about what had happened, between Emily, Hermione and Draco. She went into detail about how Mrs. Malfoy had turned up, and mentioned Occlumency, and about Draco <strike>Fucking</strike> Malfoy's French Countryside Mansion. She explained Tripley, and Lucius, and the cursed beings that threatened to attack them.

And how the little key on her necklace was the Portkey he'd saved her with. She even told Ginny about the kisses, about the broom-closet, all of it.

Because Ginny was one of the few people who never kept secrets from her.

It felt right to do the same in kind.

"So you kissed him," Ginny pieced together, as she spun the Quaffle between her fingers. "A few times."

"Yes," Hermione worried her fingers together, as she wished she had something to fidget with. She'd already plucked all the vane off her quill.

"But he kissed you back."

Hermione nodded, her eyebrows flexed upward.

"Kinda weird, for him to heel turn, and then avoid you altogether." Ginny bit her lip, and punched the Quaffle. "I can take him out, if you like."

"No, don't."

"No one would miss him."

Hermione wilted, as tears formed again. "Is it stupid that I don't think -- I don't _believe_ him, in how he described it. I know he likes me. Or, I believe he does."

"Yeah but so what! If he likes you, great, that doesn't give make up for what he said." Ginny paused, and frowned at the floor. "Draco and Harry're quite similar, I think. Draco's more a prat, but similar.... Core, I guess."

"Hm?" Hermione squinted, as she rubbed her eyes.

"Voldemort comes back, they get all high on their blah-blah, I'm a man, I have to do this myself, off to tackle him alone," Ginny made a gesture, like someone speaking with her thumb and her fingers bunched together. "All that dribble."

Hermione recalled, how Harry had broken up with Ginny because he'd known he'd be on the run. He'd done so to protect Ginny, though Ginny didn't need or want that. They were together, now, but she didn't doubt that the hot and cold had affected their relationship.

"Maybe that really was all it was, to him. A bit of fun." Ginny tossed her head, to move her hair from her eyes. "But of all the people he chose to take with him from that party, he chose _you_. Not his mother or father -- _you_. Even before he knew that you liked him, before he had even kissed you once. S'bit weird, isn't it, to save someone you consider to be a bit of fun, over your parents."

Hermione lifted the small key, to look at how it danced silver in the firelight.

"I'm so sick of people trying to save me. It doesn't work. It didn't, with Harry, or the Order." She rubbed her eyes, rough and quick. "It's not working now with him, either."

"Eight women died at that wedding, Hermione." Ginny looped her arms around her knees. "Not kids, not men, _women, _eighteen to forty. And ones with ties to Death Eaters. Put two and two together..."

Hermione thought of the Dark Mark he'd flashed at her, how it bubbled black and red in the dim light.

"C'mon, let's head out."

* * *

"You have to tell us something."

"We can't, Gin." Harry looked to Ron, who was bunched in beside him.

"Yeah, just 'cause you're dating an Auror doesn't mean you are entitled to any Ministry-exclusive information." Ron wobbled his head, as if he were reciting some rule from a pamphlet.

"I'll make your grave Ministry-exclusive information," Ginny mumbled, as she jabbed the fire with the poker.

"Oi, Ginny! That hurts!"

"Well, can you at least tell me if the Revenants were quarantined." Hermione sat cross-legged, her hands on her ankles.

"We aren't at liberty to discuss -- "

"They have been," Harry interjected.

"Harry!"

"She already knows about the Revenants, Ron."

"Oh, so they _are_ Revenants." Hermione looked pleased with herself.

"Wait, you didn't know they were..." Harry blushed, and looked at the ground. "Er, right, well. Yeah, we collected them, and they're being examined."

"Oh blimey Harry, why don't you just tell her we brought in Lucius for questioning."

A beat.

A groan.

"Ron," Hermione buried her face her hands, and exhaled her laughter. She heard Ron and Harry bicker about who had said too much. Both had, and Ginny continued to poke the ashes beneath Ron for her own amusement.

"Yeah, well, it's not that big of a secret." Harry elbowed Ron, so hard he vanished from the fireplace. "You're alright though, Hermione?"

"Technically."

Harry frowned, before he vanished altogether. Ron popped back into frame with a goofy smile on his face. "Shame your little boyfriend's back on the suspect list, huh?"

"Ron," Ginny jabbed harder than before.

"He's not my boyfriend," Hermione said, crisp and decisive. She didn't have to even lie; he wasn't anything to her, as he'd made evident.

"Well -- ouch, Ginny, stop, you got Harry with that one -- "

Harry reappeared, with a piece of paper in one hand and his glasses askew. "I meant to give you this."

And the paper fluttered through the fireplace, and Hermione snatched it before it landed on the ashes. It was a plain, dogeared piece of parchment. She clutched it close, and stared back at Harry.

"Consider it a late birthday present," he grinned. "Though I may need it back."

"Yeah, once we start pumping out the kids, so they can carry on Fred's terrorizing legacy." Ginny laughed, as if she couldn't imagine anything worse.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Ron interjected, and waved his hands. "No, no, no."

"Kids?" Harry squawked. "I mean -- "

"Put a baby in me Harry!" Ginny screamed, with her hands framed around her mouth for effect. Hermione was immensely grateful that McGonagall trusted them to be alone in her office for the conversation. She owed it to years of Prefect duty and good behavior (mostly).

"Another one, Ginny?" Harry sighed, dejected. Hermione could see the blush through the flames.

"I'm going to bed, screw the lot of you, honestly." Ron flipped Ginny off and walked out of the view of the fireplace.

"Er, right, let's put a pin that," Harry was so red that it transcended the green flames. He adjusted his glasses, and frowned out at them. "We're both glad you got out safe, Hermione."

"Yes, well, Draco at least saw to that."

Harry watched Ron, she surmised, and looked back to Hermione once he was sure the redhead had left. "Draco kept apologizing to me, after we managed to dispel whatever had started the Revenants."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry, as she inched that little bit closer.

"I didn't get it at first, as he was just blindly apologizing to me, sorry, sorry, sorry..." Harry cleared his throat. "I was there to do my job, but once he could speak clearly... He clarified, that he was sorry getting you involved."

"Yes, I'm sure he was."

"I don't like him," Harry fussed with his hair, as he looked out at her. "But I'm glad he got you out of there."

"I could have helped, if I'd stayed. I could have saved one of those women who died -- "

"Hermione, you saw the women who died."

"Yes, they're all people related to or married to Death Eaters -- "

"Or dating them." Harry raised a brow at her, through the Floo network. "Voldemort trusted The Malfoys, so much so he left them with -- " He caught himself, and took a second to think his words through. "He gave them to the tools, to bring him _back_. That's what we think."

"But they searched through the house for anything linked to Voldemort."

"So they missed something. We don't have enough information on that right now, I'd tell you if we did." Harry looked to Ginny, who was frowning beside Hermione. "We don't know, Hermione, but you could have easily been one of the targets."

"Why?"

"And you chose to go as Draco's date," Harry stepped through, slowly. "You were there as a Muggleborn, and as someone who publicly worked against Voldemort. I know you're a capable witch, 'Mione, but you'd have been in too much danger."

Hermione frowned, as she rested her elbows on her knees. "But if the Malfoys were given the means to bring Voldemort back, why would he punish them..?"

"For a man who expects loyalty, I don't think Voldemort _gives_ it -- he killed Pettigrew pretty easily, after all." Harry scruffed his hair, as if to stop himself from reaching through the fire, to shake Hermione. "And the fact that Draco _took_ you out of that place, I wouldn't doubt he'd be killed for that, for anything else he's done. It's why we think he's..."

"Blood cursed."

Harry and Hermione looked at Ginny, as if they'd forgotten she was there.

"Riddle mentioned something, about how he'd make his friends join blood pacts with him." She blinked, and rubbed at her face. She wasn't in tears, as she didn't cry as easily as Hermione. "But he used to tell me, about how if people wronged him, he'd get them, even if he was dead. Especially if he was dead."

"He didn't make you..."

"_He_ couldn't," Ginny shook her head. "The journal wasn't him, no blood."

"We always knew the Dark Mark had something else to it," Hermione mumbled, beneath her breath.

"We're trying to work out what that is, with the Death Eaters we have left to question. Most received the Kiss, or turned up dead."

"How'd they die, Harry?"

Harry didn't respond.

"Harry?"

"I have to go. I'm sorry. I can't -- I love you, both of you," he looked at Hermione and Ginny, and gave them a sad smile. And the fire went out.

"I'm gonna kill him' Ginny said, softly. "I gotta do it."

Hermione rested back, and she didn't need to be told that the mysterious deaths of the free Death Eaters may not have been so mysterious. She accepted Ginny's hand, to get back to her feet. It was in the dark, beside the roaring fireplace, that Hermione spotted the Pensieve.

"We should head to bed," Ginny waved Hermione after her.

"I, um..." She worried her fingers together. "I need a minute. If that's okay."

"Oh, sure," Ginny frowned, and looked at the door. "D'you want me to wait downstairs?"

"Please." Hermione nodded, and looked at the doorway. "I'll be five minutes, at most."

Ginny looked at Hermione, and the Pensieve, and shook her head. She didn't say anything, as they both knew it was a lost cause.

And Hermione approached the Pensieve and the vials that surrounded it.

She had five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this leans into "he's doing it to protect you!!!" Trope territory but counterpoint, he's being obvious with it and Hermione ain't that dumb.


	28. to steal your mind.

> _ **October 7th, 1998. A knut for your thoughts.** _

Hermione stared down the wall of vials, unsure which would assist her. That was, if any of them were even relevant in the first place. She skimmed the vials with her fingertips though she resisted the urge to touch any. The yellowed labels had faded, which made it difficult to see them. Not all the vials were labelled, but those that were seemed eclectic at best.

_'Napping with a Northern Niffler Nest'._

_'A Hippogriph Ride Through The Artic'._

Useless.

She needed to know why Voldemort hadn't died, like Dumbledore had said he would. Harry was meant to be killed by Voldemort's hand, and then Voldemort could be killed. That was how it was meant to go, wasn't it?

"I open at the close."

The phrase rolled in her mind, but provided no answers. She had once respected Dumbledore for his intelligence, but she had since learned that there was an even greater wisdom in genuine clarity.

It was easier to sound smart than to _be_ smart.

Hermione worked her ring in circles, around and around her finger. She dug her nails into the sapphires, and bit her lip, and felt the time drip away.

She almost missed the strand that sprung out of her ring, as it did when she needed a book desperately. It looped around a knight statue to her right, and wove behind a portrait.

Hermione frowned at her hand, and shook it several times. It usually led to a book, or something she could grab. It'd never led her straight into a wall.

And then she looked closer at the empty portrait, labelled with Dumbledore's name.

He wasn't there at the moment, which made it difficult to see in the dark of the office. But as she approached, she realized the string was going through the wall, not into blank space.

She lifted painting.

And it moved.

Not just forward, as one would expect, but the whole wall moved. It seemed planned, as if this were meant to happen, as if it were something they should have known was here all along.

She looked at the hallway, which led upwards. There were dim blue sconces on the walls, and her silver thread led into the dark. The stones were black and dusty, with a narrow trail up the middle. Cobwebs clung to the roof, and covered her mouth to stifle a scream.

She's a genius, why was no one ever here when she was so clever! 

Wait, this was good. If no one else was around...

This could be her secret.

She panicked in circles for a second, whispering curse words under her breath, before she ran inside. She had a few minutes until Ginny would come to find her.

As she ran up the steps, higher, she kept an eye out for traps. But nothing caught her attention, nothing to hinder her progress.

Her upwards ascent slowed as the space became smaller, and smaller. She bumped her elbows as she swatted away the thick cobwebs, which her thread lit so they were eerie and gossamer. As her knees bent and her head stooped, she felt like Alice In Wonderland. The curious hallway turned into a tunnel, which she was lucky to fit through.

She had no idea how Dumbledore would ever make it up here. Perhaps there was something she had missed along the way. Or perhaps it was shaped this way to deter people.

It had failed.

At the top of the stairs was a rickety ladder, which she climbed with difficulty. Once she reached the top, she could hardly breathe.

The dust was thick and unforgiving, and it blanketed the tiny workspace. It was generous to call it a workspace, as there was room for a desk and a bookshelf. She could barely fit her two feet onto the floor, without being forced to take the seat.

There were dozens of notes, in languages not even she could identify. There were vials of ingredients that had likely expired, and more notebooks than the desk visible. There were dozens of them, piled so high she couldn't see the walls. She didn't know where to start.

She had two minutes.

Frantic, Hermiome grabbed the lone book that her ring had coiled around. The embossed eagle on the cover winked at her through the dark, as she found her mark. 

The thread burst into sparkles and glitter, and she was left with a ratty notebook and an itchy nose. Of all the notebooks on the table, this would have been the last one she'd have picked. The cover was half-off, and the embossed letters had been worn away from use. The pages were deep yellow, archaic and fragile.

She almost set it down, before she decided there was no harm in at least looking at it. As long as she didn't write in it, or speak with it -- that was how Riddle's diary worked, wasn't it? She could ask Ginny, but she didn't want to tell anyone about the power the ring possessed, as they'd call her a hypocrite.

As she turned to move away, she knocked a stack of paper with her elbow. She fussed them back into a neat pile, which she dropped the second she saw what had been beneath them.

It was a modified potion kit with seven vials in it. It was compact, in fresh leather and silver clasps. The ornate black oak lid was ajar, exposed to the decay of the workspace. The green velvet interior had turned murky, but she could see how brilliant it had been.

The vials were labelled with dates, during from the seventies to now. No names were shown, and no descriptions either. All except one that read; 'If he needs to know.'

As she picked up the case, the vials swirled like the ones downstairs.

They shimmered, silver and bright, and she felt her hand twitch towards one of them. The longer she looked, the more she could see faces in the liquid. But she couldn't decide which to take, if any.

She panicked, and tucked the whole case under her arm. No one would notice, or care. She fell down the rickety ladder and hurt her ankle. It had crunched in a nasty way, but she raced down the funhouse corridor.

As she slapped at the wall, it parted far more smoothly than the one at Diagon Alley. She was so enthralled with the spellwork that she missed the grey-haired man that stared out at her.

"Ah, Ms. Granger."

Hermione stopped, her heart in her ears.

"It had to be done."

Hermione pivoted, to eye Dumbledore's portrait. But rather than blank and twinkling, with a half-smile and serene peace, he looked severe. She'd never seen him so serious, and he didn't smile, not even as he looked at her.

But it wasn't really him.

He couldn't know.

"What had to be done?"

He smiled, faint beneath the severe slant of his brows. It was clear he was done with her, if he'd even realized who she was or what she had found.

"Great, now portraits are trying to hide things from me." And she slanted his portrait, just a few centimeters, and left vindicated.

Served him right.

* * *

Hermione arrived back in the Eighth year dorms at one in the morning, with the ratty notebook in one hand and her stolen case of memories in the other. And with her limp, which she'd patch up herself.

(She wasn't the best at medical spells, truth be told.)

Part of her expected Malfoy to be up, waiting for her, to make sure she was back safely. But he wasn't, and she felt the clench of her chest. It was better this way, especially given her literal and figurative baggage.

The points Ginny and Harry made bounced in her head, but she didn't want to make excuses for his awful behaviour. She had no time and even less patience for those who wanted to complicate her life.

Frankly, she was done.

She had Double Arithmacy in the morning, and a deep settled feeling of guilt.

Because, really, wasn't stealing.

It was grave robbing.

Which was kind of worse, wasn't it?

But he wanted her to find it. She'd just found it a year too late, and that worried her.

But now she had no way of seeing what they even were. She needed access to a Pensieve, though any shenanigans would have to wait until her ankle felt better.

* * *

> _ **  
October 9th, 1998. Getting warmer and colder, all at once.** _

Hermione had limped through classes and refused to go to Madame Pomfrey. She didn't want to explain how she'd injured her ankle, and she'd done her best to mitigate the pain. She had thought it'd feel better the next day, but it'd been several with no luck.

Honestly, it wasn't so bad.

And besides, Muggles healed just fine on their own. She had just rolled it, and she didn't want to miss classes. They'd overreact and make her sit out and the suggestion of missing class disgusted her.

She had already been so unfocused thanks to Malfoy and his fancies, like going to a wedding and all that. She had books to read, essays to write and corrections to send to the publishers when she found conflicting information.

She was so busy, honestly, she was.

In secret, she had become invested in the notebook, which she hadn't even worked out the language of yet, let alone what it said. She had either been in class or the library, up to her elbows in books about Pensieves, memories and in languages that she'd not learned in Ancient Runes.

It was different to the Potions textbook Harry had found, or the diary from Riddle. This notebook wasn't trying to give her any information, and if it seemed sinister she'd turn it over to the correct authorities.

But she had to be sure this thing was worth anyone's time, so she wasn't being paranoid.

She limped down to the dungeons, when she thought no one could see her. Her satchel was loaded with three general manuals on lost languages, two books which contained information on the origins of the Pensieve and a fiction book about a witch who became friends with a unicorn, set in Ancient Greece.

Look, she needed a little bit of joy in her life.

Malfoy's distinct stride interrupted her, as dragon leather dress shoes clacked against the stone floor of the dungeon. She was used to his gait, and that made her question herself.

Why did she know the sound of his approach? Self-defense perhaps, from bullying and from affection.

"You don't have to borrow every book from the library all at once, Granger. I'm sure they won't get jealous."

Hermione didn't respond, her nose buried in the book on lost languages.

Malfoy slid up next to her, to peek over her shoulder.

"Do you mind?" She asked, not wanting an answer.

He smiled down at her, and she wanted to punch him.

Hermione breathed out through her nose, and angled herself away so he couldn't read next to her. This way, she had her back towards him. She thought it'd signal a lack of interest.

For all the "brightest witch of her age" nonsense, she could be a right fool.

"I do mind, actually." He tipped his head, a perfect imitation of how he'd crowded behind her on the weekend, in the closet. His breath ghosted against the shell of her ear, and she couldn't help but keen into him, as if to close the gap.

Her senses slammed into her, as she slammed her book shut. Hermione spun to smack him on the chest with the book, which sent him back several paces. He was left with it, clutched in surprise.

"Are you quite right -- "

"You made yourself transparently clear on Wednesday." Hermione shoved her hair behind her ear, which tangled in her ring. She yanked at it, and picked the hairs out before Malfoy could help her. Cool satisfaction in being able to snub him soothed the pain of her yanked scalp. "I refuse to have back and forth with you. I'm not _fun_, or a plaything for when you decide to give me your time. I'm a person, and if you don't respect that, then _don't _bother me."

Malfoy stared back at her, and all she wanted was for him to pick her up and carry her somewhere soft. Things were so much worse now that he'd picked her up, as the popped into her mind on rotation. It was very --

Hermione huffed, for a lack of better sound.

But instead of wait for him to babble about how insane she was, she marched into the Potions classroom, ahead of the rest of their class. She hoped Selwyn didn't mind, but what would he do, give her detention?

As if she'd not had weeks of that already.

Hermione limped to the closest table, one that the Seventh years rarely used. She rested her weight on her arms, and leaned on the table. It wasn't that bad, really, she just needed to get through class, then tomorrow, if it still hurt -- 

"Why are you limping?"

"I'm not."

Malfoy approached, to hoist her onto the table with one fell swoop.

"I'm not a doll!" She turned beet red, hairline to navel, and she wanted to kick him away. But as she moved her ankle, he snatched it.

"I've owned snakes that're bigger than you," he snorted. "Let me see your ankle."

"No." It was her right ankle, the one she'd hurt, the one she favored. He'd asked to see it as a formality, as he shoved at the fabric of her sock without hesitation. He looked at her sore joint, the purple bruises that bloomed. Her sock drooped over her foot, which looked ridiculous. Her leg felt so much more exposed, given the knee-high sock had kept her warm in this dungeons.

"When did this happen?" He said, his voice level. He squeezed it, lightly, and she couldn't help but wince. He'd proved his point, it seemed. He alternated to running his hand along her calf, and she had to wriggle her toes to distracy herself. 

"Oh, that, I didn't even notice," Hermione laughed, though she hadn't meant to. She tried to tug her ankle out of his hand, not sure this was strictly above board. She was seated on a workbench, in the Potions classroom, and she really didn't fancy being found in such a position with Draco.

Wait, when had he become Draco again.

"No one hurt you?" He asked, with failed nonchalance.

"No! I must have stumbled off a ladder in the Library."

Draco narrowed his eyes down at her, but she knew better than to meet his eye. She instead stared at the door, ready to jump if she needed to.

"It'll heal on it's own."

"You're a witch," Draco said, stern as he drew out his wand. "You have the ability to heal it, or people who could do it for you."

"I'm not missing class for it," she tugged at her ankle again, and he let her pull it away this time. She ignored how hot his hand felt on her ankle, or how he'd moved to stand between her knees, because this was A Classroom, and she didn't think such things in A Classroom. Especially not about a man who'd been so awful to her two days ago.

She landed on her left foot, and kept her weight off her right.

Afted ten minutes, their class funneled in, and she relaxed.

Until she went to grab her bag, and she almost lost her footing. But she saved herself, and managed to set up before Selwyn had begun speaking. His lips parted and the chalkboard filled behind him. She was almost safe...

"Professor," Draco interrupted, his hand raised with curled fingers. "Granger hurt her ankle."

Selwyn looked at Hermione, who refused to look back. "Hospital Wing. Malfoy, escort her. I suspect you'll be back before your practical time."

Hermione was, to her surprise, pleased to hear that they'd be able to go to the Hospital Wing alone.

It'd be easier to throttle Malfoy in private.

Except she wasn't able to storm out of the classroom, as when she struck down in her first step, she crumbled. Her anger had gotten the best of her, and she'd forgotten how much it actually hurt. Malfoy hovered by her elbow, and caught her. A few girls made sounds, of jealousy or admiration, and Hermione hissed.

In pain, of course.

Not _at_ them.

(She didn't hiss at them, did she? The mixture of adrenaline and pure rage made it hard to recall.)

They got out of the classroom, though their bags were left behind. She had her wand, and he had his. But they took approximately ten steps before he yanked her aside, and into an empty classroom.

"Now," Draco set her onto the edge of the closest desk, and he pointed his wand at her ankle. "This might hurt, Granger."

"Hey, excuse me -- "

And her toes felt like they hit the back of her throat, as her whole body recoiled into itself, and a smash of blood and bones breaking and reforming overtook her. She was too blinded by pain to make a sound, and then it all stopped, as fast as it'd started. She gurgled a few sounds, and her eyes rolled back into her head. She wound up curled against his chest, her nails digging into his robes.

"Oh, right, you're not used to having your bones fixed, are you."

"No," Hermione said, softly, in immeasurable pain. "No, I'm not."

Her ankle radiated heat like it had been stuck into a fire. She cried loudly, without hesitation or control. She didn't complain when he pet her hair. She hadn't expected him to fix her ankle here, given that Selwyn had told them to go to the Hospital Wing. She gathered herself in a minute or two, and she stilled her breathing. She'd gone through worse, no doubt, but it still _hurt_. She hated magic sometimes, for all it's uses, it could hurt so much.

Even when it was good for you, even if it was wondrous and beautiful, it -- it fucking _hurt_.

"I had pictured this going differently," Draco mumbled into her hair.

"I'm so very sorry, are my tears not something you pictured?" She spat.

"Not tears of pain -- "

"Excuse me! Draco Lucius Malfoy," she shoved him away, as she kept her hands as two bunched claws. "What's this. What's going on."

"That was a healing spell, for your ankle. Would you have rather stumbled all the way up to the Hospital Wing?" Draco frowned down at her, his manicured brow arched too high.

"No, no, no, you don't get to brush past everything like it doesn't matter!" Hermione waved both her hands, frantic. "You _hurt_ me on Wednesday, and I don't care why you did it, it wasn't okay. I don't care if you were trying to protect me, or if you really just were after a five-for-five total on my dorm room, or whatever it is you were after."

"Five for...?"

"Forget that," Hermione waved her hands again, as frantic as before. "It's not fair to kiss me, then vanish, and then go back to being flirty, as if you hadn't stepped all over me." She swallowed hard, as she forgot where they were, and the fact this was an empty classroom late on a Friday afternoon. "I thought when you did it to Emily, that... I don't know why I thought I would be different, but I refuse to be like Emily, or Pansy, or any of those girls who give you a thousand chances. You get one chance, Draco. _One_. You don't get to decide when to acknowledge me, and when you ignore me."

Draco looked down at her, though his vision dropped lower than she liked. She scowled up at him until he reached out to grab her.

Rather, her necklace.

"You turned this into a necklace?" He met her eye.

"Did you hear anything I just said?" Hermione blushed, out of anger and pain.

"One chance." Draco ran his thumb over the key, and then let it fall from his grip. He rested his finger beneath her chin instead, as he leaned down to kiss her.

And like a stupid, dumb, absolute buffoon of a girl, she let him.

Oh no. Not just met him half-way, like she would with Krum. Or defensively, as she would with McLaggen.

She met his lips, eager and foolish, as if Wednesday hadn't happened. But she had said her piece and made her point. She had laid down the law, and expressed her concerns, but he'd gotten sentimental over the Portkey that he'd given her and that didn't count as an apology.

But it wasn't like it had been in the dorms, desperate and hot, as years seared between them like kindling. This was tender and patient, in a way she'd not expected from him. Like he'd not seen her for a few days, and he'd missed her. He didn't deserve this. His hand shook, just a little, just as it usually did. She didn't mind, though she did catch his hand with hers, to still it.

And then he broke the kiss, and she was a little annoyed at him for it.

"I wanted to hurt you, on Wednesday," he said, low against her parted lips. "We can't do this. We really can't."

"Don't pull that, Draco." Hermione picked through her words, unsure which to settle on. "Pushing me away, acting like I'm nothing, if you do it enough, it'll work. Treat me like I'm nothing and I'll become nothing."

Draco pecked her, but she didn't meet him this time.

"I'm not going to hang around, until you make up your mind. One chance."

Draco swallowed, so loud that she heard it.

"People want me dead, regardless of whether or not I'm -- if we're something," she stumbled, almost there, but not quite. "So, doing anything to protect me is stupid. If you don't like me, you don't like me. That's fine. But, I think... If we both wanted this to work, if we talked -- "

"Hermione, don't be stupid." He huffed, his nails dug into the table beside her. "No matter how much has changed, I'm still a Malfoy. My family is my duty."

"Do you really believe that?" Hermione scooted, just a bit, to put some space between them. "Tell me right now you don't want me, and I'll leave you alone. But you have to do the same for me. I refuse to be someone you bounce back to, when you feel the urge. I can't watch you run off with some other girl, to be left to comfort her and hear all the things you did together..."

Draco's limbs went stiff, as he realized what Hermione knew. Beyond the memories she had plucked through the ring, she saw Emily's version of him, and she hated that man.

"What if I can't protect you?" He touched the key that rested on her chest.

"I got this far on my own," she smiled at him. "With friends and with those who wanted to help me. You're not responsible for me, or vice versa." 

Draco remained silent, his hands bunched beside her.

"I'm a painfully jealous person, truth be told." She echoed his letter, the one she'd not been able to respond to. She smiled up at him, unsure if the callback strengthened or ruined her point.

Hermione hadn't expected him to snatch her chin up, or to yank her closer by the crook of her knee. For all the tenderness he'd held before, it went up in flames. He tongued her lips apart with ease, and her breath seemed to disappear soon after.

He kissed her with the same heat that she'd experienced before, from Krum, from Ron, but those had been clumsy, and demanding. This was so much like everything else about them, as he'd tease and coax her, so she'd end up chasing him rather than overpowering her. He grinned into the kiss, and she wanted to see it, but she also didn't want to stop kissing him.

He pressed into her, hands at her outer thighs as he fidgeted with their robes. She didn't mind at first, not as he led her tongue and her lips, with practiced ease. She had never thought of a kiss like a puzzle, but that was the best way she could liken it to anything.

There was no pressure or clash of their teeth, it was just as if they read and responded to one another, eager into fierce, and then all too much. It didn't help that he dragged his nails across her thigh, a ghost of a sensation that made her jump clear off the table.

And he'd fallen after her, as she'd yanked his robes.

And she hit her head.

And this was exactly how she'd die, isn't it?

"You okay?" He couldn't stop laughing, and she wished he'd slammed his head, too.

"You scared me!" She checked her head, which had collided with the chair. But she wasn't bleeding, thankfully. He was bracketed above her, stuck in laughter, as he stared down at her.

"I'll double-check with you before I touch you," he exhaled as if it were such a chore.

"Maybe you should."

"Okay, may I have your hand?"

She offered it out, for him to help her up.

"And your index finger, middle finger, ring finger -- "

Hermione mock laughed and allowed him to help her up. She could still feel his hand on her thigh, and she fidgeted with her robes, to distract from it.

She looked to the door, where a Seventh year Slytherin boy stood.

He shook his head and left with a jar full of toad feet.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm pretty sure he found me once with Pansy in -- "

"Don't, please don't," Hermione rushed out of the room, at least glad that she had use of her ankle again. It made it so much easier to rush away from Draco when he was being a prat. She smiled at Selwyn as she entered the main classroom. He seemed unaffected by their return, neither happy she was better or annoyed they were back.

He barely looked at them before he resumed his rounds. She fussed with her robes and her face, as if she could disguise how they'd made a detour.

At least her hair was always a mess, by others' standards.

She blended into the back of the classroom, with Draco in tow. He lingered to help the boy who'd stumbled upon them with his Potion, but Hermione could see how he'd pinched a pressure point in the boy's neck and whispered something to him.

And Draco smiled at her, warmly, which took her by surprise. He approached her table and unpacked his supplies. It was surprisingly normal, as if they'd not just made out in an empty Potions classroom, and reconstructed her ankle bones. She didn't know what to make of their conversation, or if he understood her or not.

Nor did she know what to make of his hand, which rested on her knee through class, when he was able to. She only had to swat it twice, as he'd inched it further up her thigh.


	29. alpha, beta, omega.

> _ **October 12th, 1998.** _

"Can you please stop pacing?" Draco was sprawled on the couch in the upper dorm, though his legs hung over the arm due to his height. "It's stressing me out."

"Well, not being able to work this out is stressing me out!" Hermione wriggled her fingers through her hair, to shake out the tension.

"I happen to know a marvelous solution to stress -- "

"Because of all the languages we've looked at, this one is just... It's gibberish. I can't even match the letters to anything, there's no alphabet that lines up with it." She pointed to the book, which had the basis of a language, in how the shapes patterned.

She ran her index finger and thumb around one another in circles, as she continued to pace, round and round the Glimmertree. It still had half of it's leaves, but the ends of the twigs had gone blue and crystalline.

Draco cranked his head in a circle, and a loud crack sounded at each angle. "Perhaps you've overlooked something."

"Oh, yeah, sure, okay," Hermione scoffed, not following his logic. "I've been reading it for almost a week straight." She dropped the book on the table, to massage her face with both hands. This pushed dust into her eyes, and they watered in protest.

He sat up on the couch, enough to get the notebook from the table. She decided no one would know that she'd stolen it from Dumbledore's secret workshop, it could be from anywhere.

Hogwarts was a weird place, after all. 

"I'm going to be presumptuous, and assume you've checked basic Ancient dialects?" He skimmed the first few pages, and rotated the book with each turn. He seemed to be in search of something.

"Yes, yes, all the Slavic languages, Common, South, East, that whole region, I checked Farsi, Lithuanian -- "

"Ancient Greek?"

Hermione looked at him, with a red tint to her ears. "Well, that is -- obviously I considered that, but, I couldn't find any immediate links -- "

"Did you realize..." He tipped the book, so it was horizontal rather than vertical. "You were holding it the wrong way."

"I checked, the cover was the other way! You're just holding it wrong to prove a false point." She dipped closer to him, her knee on the couch beside him, as she peeked past his shoulder.

"Have you never written in a notebook longways? Or is that a cardinal sin for you?" He smirked sideways up at her, as she leaned into his shoulder. With a long, pale finger, he pointed to the letters. "Alpha, beta, omega. Their handwriting is a little sketchy, not consistent in their penmanship, but the faster the mind..."

Hermione's fingers tingled, as she wanted to both strangle him and pull him closer. But she settled for neither, and gently grabbed the book from him. She curled up on her half of the couch, her legs curled up.

"Do they not teach you Ancient Greek in Muggle schools?" He basked in his triumph, and she was too invested in the book to notice.

The problem was that she had no understanding of the language, or what it was saying. Even if she translated it, she'd then have to translate that into English, and it would take her days, if not weeks.

She snatched up her book about the witch and the unicorn, which had several passages in Ancient Greek. She saw the similarities now. she felt so stupid.

"Do you understand it?" She showed it to him, with the flick of her wrist.

Draco shook his head. "I recognize the alphabet, but unless it says 'hello, I am Draco Malfoy' or the names of Greek Gods, I'm no help."

Hermione fussed on the spot, as she struggled with the damaged cover. The book would fall apart before she fully translated it. And it could be that none of it was even useful.

She didn't have time for this.

"Wait here."

She sped off, down to her dorms, and snatched up the burnt copy of Pride and Prejudice. It was late Monday evening, but she figured that Professor Ayers wouldn't mind.

As she sped back up into the dorm, and out the door, she had to come back to grab Draco's hand.

And he followed her, as always.

* * *

They made it across the grounds and into the castle unperturbed. Hermione had the Marauder's Map in her pocket, but she didn't strictly want to show it off to Draco. It was meant to be secret, and she didn't want him to tell others about it.

Perhaps that suggested larger problems, but she'd think on that later.

They made their way up to Professor Ayers' private room. She took over Professor McGonagall's room, as McGonagall had rotated up to the Headmaster's office. Students rarely had a reason to bother their Heads of House, but it was a place they'd always known of.

And Hermione had been there multiple times, to discuss essay results, and further criticism on her work. Draco didn't question where they were going, or why. He seemed pleased to be with her, in the dark of the castle late at night.

It had been peaceful.

Key word, had.

Hermione heard Ginny and McRory approaching along the corridor. Before she had a chance to do anything, Draco had pulled her into an alcove. He tugged on his hood, and bracketed her so they were black shadows in the dark.

And he winked, and motioned for her to be quiet with an index finger in front of his lips.

As if she were going to shout at him, which she absolutely was about to.

He had done this maneuver before, and she had to wonder if it was with someone like Pansy, or with Emily, or even Crabbe. This made her smile, petulant and small, as she stared up at him in the limited light.

He smelled like spearmint toothpaste. 

" -- which is why, after we went swimming, my toes turned purple!"

"Yeah, McRory, you told that story last week," she mumbled. "And the week before that."

She endured the close up look of his self-satisfied grin. While she scowled up at him, he smiled down at her, in his element. The eyebrow raise made it all the worse, and she scrunched inward to put a little space between them.

"Well, it's quite a story, isn't it!"

"Yep, quite a story."

Their voices trailed off, and Draco peeked over his shoulder. He moved to cup her cheek in his hand, to kiss her, but she held up the ruined notebook between them.

"None of that," she whispered. "We have things to do."

"Do we?" he smiled down at her, and she wagered that he just enjoyed seeing her flustered.

"I'm willing to wager that Ayers can read Ancient Greek." And she sped off, on her quick little legs, and Draco followed with the same puppy dog temperament that'd led him all the way up here.

That, or his morbid curiosity, at seeing Hermione break multiple school rules in a row.

"You put on this obnoxious, holier than thou good girl act," he said, thoughtful as they approached Ayers' room. "But that's such a lie, Granger."

"I never claimed to be a good girl," Hermione shot back, as close to lascivious as she had ever been.

Draco ran straight into suit of armor.

It toppled and reformed, like a shower of nails onto glass. The metallic tinks and scrapes didn't stop, as the armor extended it's posture, taller, broader, incensed by being knocked over by a student who was up past curfew.

They broke into a sprint, and slammed into the door at the end of the corridor. They knocked, frantic, as the suit of armor stomped towards them, one metallic clank after another.

"Hello? Oh," Ayers peered up at Draco, then at Hermione. She was around Hermione's height, though curvier, which meant she knocked Hermione out of the way with her hip as she walked out.

"We're sorry, Professor -- "

"_Rubigo_."

The armor turned to rust, as it'd hoisted it's great-sword into the air.

"He's such a grump," Ayers yawned, as she waved them into her room. "You hear that!" She shouted down the hall at the rusted armor.

It creaked in response.

"He'll be fine. I sneezed in front of him once and he chased me to the dungeons. Took him a few hours to break himself free, but he'll get it," she followed them in, though they'd found it hard to get in at all.

Books.

It was just, books.

There were stacks up to Hermione's head, some even up to Draco's, but most were around shin length. They varied in colours and sizes, some so small that even Tripley would struggle to open them, and one's twice the size of Tripey.

Several had jewels and gems inlaid in their spines, while one had a whole crystal ball embedded into the cover. It poked out of the cover like an eyeball in a socket, which reminded Hermione of a dragon.

Amidst the piles of books was a couch, a coffee table and a set of drawers. Each had books on them, at varying angles and states of being read. Some were propped open with vials, while one book was splayed open with an ornate boot.

Two doors split off, and Hermione presumed they were a bedroom and bathroom.

There was an ornate record player, one that must have been magical. It had a blue glow around the base of it, with gems inlaid where there would usually be controls. Several piles of records broke up the sea of books.

"It's..." Ayers breathed, red in the face. "I've been meaning to clean up."

"This is amazing," Hermione exhaled.

"Of course you'd like it."

Hermione elbowed him, and stepped past a few empty coffee mugs. Ayers rushed over to pick them up. She also grabbed a Muggle pizza box, which she shoved under the couch.

And a bottle of whiskey.

"Friends, you know, they -- so!" She laughed, too high to be from anything except stress. "So, uh... So... What um -- how can I help?"

"Is this a bad time?" Hermione looked to Ayers, who was in a bathrobe and in the same owl pajamas as Hermione. 

It was almost ten in the evening now, and while she and Draco were still fully dressed in their uniforms, she hadn't realized Ayers would be getting ready for bed.

Ayers began to collect books from her couch, and into a Muggle-looking filing cabinet. But the pile vanished into it, despite it being three times the height of the drawer.

"No, no," Ayers dumped another pile of books into the cabinet. "I was doing some reviews, for classes this week. It's good to refresh."

"All these books -- "

"Sorry, did you need something specific?" Ayers interjected, her thin hospitality became tense.

"Um, yes, actually," Hermione dug the two books out of her bag. "I needed your help with these, if that's okay."

Ayers had cleared off the couch, to which she gestured. Draco and Hermione took a seat, if only to stop themselves from accidentally knocking over one of the piles.

Ayers swooped over to inspect the books, which she took with gentle hands. She twirled her wand and the enchanted Pride and Prejudice book flashed white, returned to the state she'd originally bought it as.

Original title and all.

"Do I want to ask," Ayers grinned, as she flipped through the book on mating rituals for giants.

"It's for extra credit," she dismissed, and reached up to accept it back from Ayers. Draco laughed, but behaved which she was thankful for.

"That was easy, but," Ayers massaged her eyes, and refocused on the shabby notebook. "This is going to be a mite bit more difficult."

"But you can do it?"

"I've restored documents from over a thousand years ago with only one chapter to work with, and a tearful breakdown over getting it all backwards." She grinned, wide, as she shoved all the mess off her coffee table. "Shouldn't be too hard."

Hermione dropped to her knees to neatly stack the books together, while Ayers sat cross-legged on the floor. She alternated between her wand and her hand. Sigils and diagnostics appeared beneath her palm, as the ink flowed back into place and the pages seemed to recoil through time.

Draco watched, as enthralled as she was.

Hermione had taken to walking around, as she picked through the books. Ayers made no mention of it, as she either didn't mind or hadn't noticed. She didn't open any of the books, though she was tempted to.

As she paced around the space, she couldn't help but peak into her bedroom. It was a passing glance, not meant to be rude, as she'd just been curious if the books bled into her private quarters.

There was a sliver of pale flesh between red sheets, though the mixture of blankets and pillows obscured most of their form. They seemed to be asleep, whoever they were.

Ayers didn't have a partner, not unless you counted Selwyn. It wasn't traditional for Professors to have people in their dorms, either. Not unless they were married, Hermione believed.

The figure shifted, whoever they were, as she saw a flash of black hair. She covered her gasp with a yawn, and rushed over to the record player.

Draco had noticed her gasp, as she'd hidden it terribly. He walked over, same as her, and walked away just the same. He exchanged a look with Hermione, as they both tried not to picture whoever that was with Ayers.

It could be Snape, Sirius or neither, and she really didn't have the mental capacity to deal with the first two options. It explained why she was so flighty, and the friends comment.

Draco put his hand beneath her hair, to massage the nape of her neck. And he almost got her to relax, until they heard Ayers gasp.

"This is, uh," Ayers hissed through her teeth. "Bad."

"What?" Hermione looked back to Ayers, who seemed concerned. "You can't read it?"

"No, I can. And that's why it's bad."

* * *

Hermione lay awake in her dorm, with the Marauders Map splayed out in front of her. Whoever had been in her bed must have left after they had, as no other names turned up in Ayers' room.

She dismissed the map when she saw Ayers get into bed, and stay still.

Perhaps she'd imagined it.

* * *

> _ **October 14th, 1998.** _

Wednesday morning, Ayers handed across the final text. She retained the master copy, as it was in Ancient Greek, but she'd translated the rest. She said nothing, but gave Hermione a concerned frown.

As their class piled out, Hermione remained seated. Draco looked back at her, but left when Emily bounced over to him. He didn't seem pleased about her.

But she would insist on staying in the room, with Hermione and Draco. So he allowed her to link arms with him, and walked off with her towards the Great Hall. He'd gestured at his hand, before he left, and her ring burned.

_"Tell me later."_

"So, what's the book about?" She asked, as she flipped the cover open.

Ayers whirled her wand, and the room was silent. She could feel the buzz of magic as it passed over her.

The pages made little sense at first, as they spoke in riddles about the kindness of strangers and how there was power in it's exploitation. Nothing specific, no spells, no practical information...

Just the snide attitude about those who would do anything, if they thought they were helping.

The concept of magical shields was a focus, for the first portion. This varied from incantations to blood curses, light and dark. She saw a description of pagan sacrifices, though this seemed more like an idle fancy than real magic.

And then it focused down, on how to protect someone from death.

"It's Dumbledore's process for the Armourdonnes -- plural."

"Plural? That is... One for Neville, and one for Harry?"

Ayers nodded and gave her a warm smile, sleepless as she sat in front of Hermione. She pinched at the bridge of her nose, and tossed her glasses onto the table.

"Are you okay, Professor?"

"Honestly, no." She exhaled, deeply, and gave Hermione a watery smile. "Keep reading. Please."

Hermione frowned, and did as she was told.

The dates started from the sixties, the seventies. All the way to nineteen eighty-one. Some of the dates were the same as the vials that she'd pilfered.

He wrote about the creation of Horcruxes and Amourdonnes in equal measure, about how they're both a form of sacrifice, one willing, one unwilling. One selfish, one selfless. Both were rooted in one original occurrence, both within Ancient Greece.

Where all the other definitions of an Amourdonne made it sound selfless and as an act of beauty, this portrayed it as something far more grim. It described how the Amourdonnee, the one who was being protected, would experience the pain. And their Amourdonne, the one who was protecting, would take on half of it.

A Killing Curse would be repelled from the Amourdonnee, and fall on the Amourdonne. But unless the Amourdonne is targeted, directly, they cannot die by this tether.

Hermione thought back to how Sirius said Ayers had lit up in The Veil, as if a beacon back to the living. But what if she'd half-died, and appeared like a ghost between planes?

Hermione noted that down, and put it to the side.

Although distant and self-assured, his tone softened as he continued to write. Though the cruelty didn't vanish. He just got better at hiding the violence behind pretty language.

A large section was dedicated to the contrast of Light Arts and Dark Arts. It described the division, and spoke of how the Amourdonne was conceived as a Light Arts equivalent to the Dark Arts Horcrux.

But the problem in all that was there was no good nor evil. Magic had no morality, not like humans.

There was light and dark.

Too much light could kill someone, just as too much darkness would. Both hurt, both involved sacrifices, and both invovled a death. Both extended the life of a witch or wizard, and both defied the laws of nature.

For an Amourdonne to come into existence, the parent of the Amourdonnee needed to die, violently. They had to be matched, in temperament, and in appearance, like a vessel for the original soul to nest in while the child lived on.

A surrogate.

Hermione shot Ayers a nervous look, with her long red hair and bright green eyes.

And if this promise was made without the knowledge of the mother, specifically, the magic was more intense. It argued that the further away the Amourdonne was from the child, emotionally, the stronger the protection. The younger the vessel, the more pure it was seen to be.

This was all muck, as far as Hermione was concerned. It made her skin crawl, how it painted the women as nothing more than a conduit for a higher purpose.

A few scribbled notes spoke of a god parent as a perfect middle step between the Amourdonne and the mother. The god parent was sworn to protect their physical well-being, while an Amourdonne was sworn to protect their soul.

On the last pages, whoever had written these notes had written down two names.

"Catherine Rose Ayers, Gryffindor, 5th year."  
"Aceline Amelia Bones, Hufflepuff, 5th year."

And then it stopped, abruptly, on October 17th, 1981.

_"It had to be done."_

That was the last note in the book.

Hermione looked up at Ayers, her eyes wide.

"I had a suspicion," she shook her head, as tears ran down her cheeks. "I mean, there had to be a reason that Dumbledore bothered with me." She stared Hermione down, and as always, she saw that flash of Harry.

Lily's eyes.

"Do you remember what happened?" Hermione asked, quietly.

She shook her head.

"He seemed interested in anyone who matched closely to Lily and Alice." Hermione furrowed her brow, as she thought of Amelia and Alice. They were similar, now that she thought about it. The same as Lily and Catherine, similar but not identical.

"For starters, Catherine means 'pure'." She grinned, tears still down her cheeks. "Wanna take a guess what 'Lily' means?"

Hermione swallowed.

"Aceline means 'noble'. Same as 'Alice'. Same hair, same house..." Ayers grit her teeth, as her fists bunched up into her elbows. "But Amelia never used her first name. Thought it made her sound old." She smiled, as if reminiscing about a girl she'd known.

And perhaps they had been friends, before it all fell apart. Both were at Hogwarts at the same time, and both were in the Ministry. Both remained in Dumbledore's favor, and both were intelligent and fierce.

What had happened in ninteen eighty-one.

"Didn't Amelia die, several years ago." Hermione spoke, unsure if this helped her case. "Do you think someone knew, about her being an Amourdonne?"

"Maybe. Maybe someone knew, someone Dumbledore told. She would have been a loose end, if they didn't need Neville like they needed Harry." Ayers nodded, as she massaged her eyes. "The notes are all in Dumbledore's handwriting. He transcribed it from original texts, but interposed his own findings. I doubt this was ever meant to be read."

"So, if you're Lily's Armourdonne, for Harry..."

"Then Harry couldn't die -- he can't die. Not unless I die first," she scoffed, as she took a seat on the desk. "Which means Voldemort didn't kill him."

"And that Horcrux still exists."

Hermione worried her thumb against her bottom lip. "Harry lost his ability to use Parseltongue. And he hadn't any idea that Voldemort was back. Wouldn't he have had some dreams, or visions? That's how it used to happen."

Ayers shrugged, uselessly. "I have no idea, Hermione. This is the first I've heard of any of this."

"You don't remember anything?"

Ayers shook her head, seated on her desk. "I'm sorry."

Hermione packed up her belongings, and rushed to her next class. She was almost half an hour late to it, as she'd not realized how much she'd read in that seemingly short time.

It was only a single period of Arithmacy, but she managed to get her work finished. The day continued in a blur, as she couldn't escape the problem that had been presented to her.

Dumbledore knew that Harry had to die, at the right time. He'd set Harry up for the perfect fall, at the perfect time.

So that meant someone had been tasked with killing Ayers, and failed.

Didn't it?

* * *

Hermione felt ill, rather than excited. She had given Ayers the book with an air of triumph, as if she'd unlocked the next step in a problem, but she'd only made things more complicated.

She had thrown Ayers's life in her face, about how she was a walking testament to a dead woman. About how Dumbledore had kept her close, same as Harry, to ensure that she died when he needed her to.

She breezed through the day, wordless and blind, and only seemed to wake up when Draco ran his fingers through her hair. She keened into his touch, as he scratched at her scalp, and she felt the tension melt away.

"Did Ayers get your book back to you?" He asked, as they sat in the Eighth year commonroom. He didn't retract his hand as Neville walked past, confused and amused all at once.

Hermione gently closed her Ancient Runes textbook, which she'd been revising. "About all that..."

Draco raised a brow. 

"It wasn't anything." Hermione smiled up at him. "Just gibberish, about blood purity."

"Oh." He exhaled, confused. "That took you almost an hour to get through?"

Hermione leaned her weight against his leg. She was seated on the floor, amidst her newly acquired Ancient Greek textbooks. She accepted the head scratches, and decided this wasn't the time, nor the place.

"D'you think Snape and Ayers -- "

"Don't." Hermione squeaked. "Please don't."

It couldn't have been Snape. She'd have seen him on the map. But she kept that secret behind her teeth, too, as she worked through her Ancient Runes homework, alongside her Ancient Greek study.


	30. how can it be so easy.

> _ **October 17th, 1998.** _

Hermione had a problem.

Yes, there was Voldemort, and yes, her best friend had a spiritual protector who was acting as a lightning rod for all the Dark Arts that were being lobbed his way.

These were not Hermione's focus right now.

Which in itself was a problem?

She should have contacted Harry, to arrange to speak with him, to tell him in detail about the Amourdonne. But she hadn't, despite her better judgment. Ayers had told her to wait, to speak with Harry in person with Sirius and Snape in Hogsmeade. Not as Selwyn, but to allow Snape a chance to speak on his own, as his own person.

(As Ayers loathed seeing her fiance with a scowl, no doubt.)

So that was happening tomorrow. She should be up to her neck in research and re-reading Dumbledore's notebook. She should have prepared a list of possible solutions and ways to eradicate the Amourdonne. There was every chance that Harry could die, as would Ayers, and then Voldemort would still be around. Furthermore, she should have devised a strategy to combat the Revenants that may or may not still be out there, in pursuit of ex-Death Eaters and their families.

But none of this was her _problem_.

No.

Her needy, desperate brain laser-focused on Draco Lucius Malfoy, who had laughed his way up from the lower dorms with his broom over his shoulder and a grin so wide she might cry. He said something awful to Blaise, and they shoved one another, and she had a type. It was something in the confidence of how he walked, and the lean muscles along his throat. Her lips tingled, at the memory that she'd kissed him there, and how she'd like to again.

She was dimly aware of how much more of a thrill there was when she'd kissed Krum after he'd practiced flying. He'd zip around with his friends, and land, and pick her up from around her waist, and she'd melt into his arms. He tasted like sweat and salt and the thoughts made her jab herself in the hand with her quill.

The blood pumped stronger when there was adrenaline, and she was terrified every time she saw someone she liked up in the air. Perhaps that translated into -- _a special level of interest_, which she didn't want to specify.

Though there was nothing wrong with that.

What, was there a law against finding Quidditch players attractive?

No. She'd checked.

No, she hadn't.

That's so stupid, not even she was that pedantic.

But this was the problem. She felt her pulse quicken as she watched Draco turn to Theo, and jab him in the chest. She continued to joke and shove each other, as they waited out the light shower of rain outside. It'd have passed over soon, as the clouds looked clear on the horizon. They'd be gone soon.

He was the problem.

He was doing this on purpose. The slim sweater highlighted his lean figure, not burly and thick like Krum, or gangly like Ron. He'd filled out, sure, but -- Draco. There was something in the way he carried himself, something that so few people had. She'd always resented him for it, thinking him pompous, until she realized it made her want to straighten her posture. Where other boys were thuggish and clumsy, he was more like a dancer. Not that she'd say that to him, but he kept her gaze, completely.

He hit the right notes, like her favorite symphony. Most of all, he did all this while simply _being_. 

She made no secret of how she stared, and he seemed to enjoy that.

And then he winked in her direction.

And she was bright red, simple as that, as there was every chance he'd gleaned her thoughts. She needed to ask him about his family, if it was a gift from his mother, or something he'd learned, and how much he could see, and -- she had so many questions for him.

Most pertinently, why hadn't he kissed her again?

It had been, by her calculations, eight days since she'd kissed Draco.

She cataloged the experiences based on unique kiss periods, rather than individual kisses. It was difficult to count kisses as they happened, as you had to decide a criteria for if it's each time you break contact, or if there's a grace period between the kisses. And then you had to consider if it was two sessions if you stopped kissing to speak, and to put it simply, they had kissed -- twice.

Yes, that sounded right. It felt like more, though.

They'd kissed on the third after she'd thought she'd never see him again. Then she kissed him again on the ninth after she'd told him he had one chance with her.

But they'd kissed, not spoken.

They had spent time together since, but the affection was mild. It still set her pace in motion and caused her mental processes to halve, but it'd gone no further than holding hands or he'd give her a massage while she read. Which, was great, and she deeply appreciated.

But it was always in private, and always cautious. Quite the opposite to McLaggen, who could have become a dentist given his deep fixation on inspecting every cavity and crevice of her mouth. She had allowed him to kiss her _once_, out of pity, and he'd surprise her every few days with a second attempt. That was a miserable few weeks, and she shuddered at the thought. She never kissed back, and actively avoided him, and he got the message.

Rather, he got a new girlfriend and told her with teary eyes that they wouldn't work anymore.

(He had begun dating Abigail Snowden, to no one's surprise.)

Hermione jigged her leg as she watched them make their way to the exit. The rain had stopped, and so they'd be able to fly.

She shoved her supplies into her purse, rather than her satchel. She couldn't be bothered to pack it neatly.

She jogged after Draco and his friends, with quick steps and her hands bunched by her thighs.

"Granger."

He'd not even turned.

But she matched his pace with a burst of speed and walked beside him. Blaise and Theo exchanged a look, their lips quirked in matched smirks.

Did Slytherins get special smirk training?

"Quidditch?"

"Excuse me?" Draco smiled, in spite of himself.

"Are you off to play Quidditch?" She blinked up at him.

"No, we're going to go have a spot of tea at Madam Puddifoot's. Double date, you see." He shot a toothy grin at the back of Theo and Blaise, who made obnoxious smooches at one another. They broke into laughter, as Theo yanked at Blaise's broom, and they stumbled.

"Oh."

"Granger." Draco made a sound from the back of his throat, like a suppressed laugh. "Of course we're going to go play Quidditch."

"Oh!"

"Are you quite right?" He asked, not for the first time.

Something shifted in her expression, where her blind enthusiasm took a back seat to hurt. She blinked back the feeling like he was mocking her. She slowed her steps, for a moment.

Draco turned to look at her. His pace slowed, and he watched her with a knitted brow.

Blaise and Theo kept their pace, though they did shoot a look back at the pair. He waved them on, and they shrugged. They had people to meet, no doubt. Probably more Slytherins, or some Ravenclaws. Maybe even Hufflepuffs, it wasn't like Hermione knew.

And he stared at her, in silence, and she didn't feel any cold except for the wash of fresh air. The rain had chilled the afternoon, but it wasn't the same sort of chill that came with Legilimens. She pouted and wished she hadn't. She rubbed her face, to remove the stupid expression because she should be able to just say what she wanted to say, it shouldn't be so difficult.

Draco looked at the retreating figures of Blaise and Theo, who were a few hundred meters away now.

"Hop on."

Hermione had expected many things, but not that.

"C'mon," he waved a hand like this was some grand favor. He wiggled his fingers towards himself, his lips pouted like this was the peak of generosity.

"Hop on -- what?"

Draco's jaw cracked out, down to the side, and he looked like he was in physical pain as he tried not to snark back at her poor choice of wording.

"I know you mean your broom," she flurried her hands at him, "why, why do you want me on that."

Draco looked around as if he was looking for someone or something. "It's faster to get to the pitch." He began, as he took a step towards her.

"But going fast isn't fun."

"It's against school rules, which I know you love to break." Another step, his smile tame, but worse for it. Like he was stalking prey, rather than speaking casually.

"I do not!" She stamped her foot and ignored the twelve-foot scroll of rules she'd broken this year alone.

"And, forgive me for saying," he dropped the broom, and swung it around, so it was bracketed between his hands. He looped it over her head and pulled her close with it. "I think you need an excuse to be close to me. Something to blame, rather."

"What do you mean?" Hermione exhaled, exasperated. 

"I'm not the sort of person you'd choose to be around. It's just convenient, or... Circumstantial."

Hermione would shout, but she'd have to do it straight into his face. He twitched his head, to knock the loose hair from his eyes, and she really despised him.

"I almost believed you, at brunch, on the train... That with enough good intentions and patience, people can have second chances," he said, with a curious look, across her face, down her throat. She had her weekend attire on, though she'd rushed out without her trenchcoat. "If saying _sorry_ was enough. For everything."

She frowned at him, confused rather than upset.

"I don't think it'll ever be enough, Hermione. But I _am_ sorry. More than you know, for more than you know." He paused and allowed the broom to drop, to thread his fingers through her hair. He did so gently, to push her hair out of her face. His fingers worked like a comb, to pin her hair away from her face, for now. "You gave me a chance, _one _chance, and the more time I spend with you, the more likely I am to ruin it."

Hermione let her hands rest on his chest, unsure where else to put them.

"I've been _savoring_ my time with you." Draco smiled at her, plain and confused. "It's a matter of time. People will find out, by our admission, or they'll piece it together, and everything you represent dies. You know that, don't you? Little girls curl their hair to look like you, Muggleborns take your achievements as goals -- the second people find out... If I'm around, with you, that's ruined for them."

"That's so stupid." Hermione shook her head, her nose wrinkled. "That's the same thing, trying to protect my image for me, acting as if you're -- "

"Hermione," Draco said, grim and plain. "You have no idea what I've done. What my family has done."

"I'm a grown woman!" She used the space he gave her to step back, her hands clenched at her sides. "If I want to date someone, I can."

Draco had been solemn and well-spoken, until the word 'date' popped out of her. He didn't seem upset or excited, rather, he seemed confused.

"I don't know what you see when you look in the mirror," Hermione ran her hand through her hair, to bunch her hair into the palm of her hand. "But you aren't the same boy who hexed my teeth, or the boy who called me a Mudblood because I insulted his flying skills. I _remember_ all these things. And I can make the choice to put them aside, and see you as you are now."

"Which is?" He asked, his voice thin.

"Draco. You're were a bully, and you're still a spoiled, arrogant pot-stirrer, but through all of that, there's good in you." Hermione stepped forward, her hands bunched at her sides. "For a boy who the world was so cruel to, who grew up in a place so tainted with spite, you had so much asked of you. You don't have to be perfect, you just have to _try_ to be better." Blaise and Theo were specks on the horizon by now, and she could see the little figures on their brooms.

"Trying isn't enough." 

"Even to try is better than most."

"So, can I kiss you without you freaking out, or is that..."

Hermione closed the gap, to press a kiss to his lips.

His broom fell to the wayside, as he picked her up by her waist and crushed her to his chest. He kissed her, greedily, and she met movement with enthusiasm. He nipped at her bottom lip, to make her squeak, and lapped up every sound that escaped her. She giggled into the kiss, and she almost missed the growl. He let her settle, back to her feet, though his hands dipped, lower.

"You_ can_ kiss me, you realize."

"In front of people?"

"Ah, that depends." Hermione frowned. "Not... Not like that, I don't want to be like er, _some_ people." She avoided naming Lavender and Ron, in respect for Draco and Lavender equally.

"Hand-holding, then?" He snatched her hand up, to kiss the back of it with too-soft lips.

"We can discuss ongoing terms." Hermione beamed up at him, as she felt the wind pick back up around them. She was joking, of course.

"Am I still to ask permission for each body part before I touch them?" He asked, in a laughably formal tone. He danced his fingers down the front of her throat and gripped her waist.

"I trust you," she smiled up at him.

And he took her hand, to spin her around. And somewhere in that, he'd snaked the broom between her legs. And she needed to remember how sneaky he could be.

"Okay, I said I trust you, not -- "

Hogwarts was beautiful from the sky. It was a tragedy Hermione couldn't see any of it, as she clenched her eyes shut and gripped onto the broom for dear life. Draco had a beautiful broom, of black oak with silver letters embossed, and silver details. She'd ask if he bought it for the abilities or the look, but once they landed.

She felt his hand over her mouth, and she realized she'd been screaming the whole way up.

"I appreciate you being vocal, but -- perhaps a lower pitch?" He said, which she only heard because he'd tucked his chin into the groove between her shoulder and ear.

They were over at the pitch in a few seconds, though it felt too short and too long all at once. It wasn't until Draco landed that she realized she'd have her joints locked. She would have fallen off the broom, had he not wrapped his arm around her waist. He shook her out as if she were laundry that went stiff in the icy rain. She stood, barely, and shot him a dirty look.

"You kept me from being on time," Draco jerked his head towards the fifteen or so people waiting on him.

It was a mix of Seventh years and Eighth years. It was an unofficial lineup for Quidditch, it seemed, and Hermione realized that fifteen people had seen her ride in on a broom with Draco.

And how that didn't surprise her as much as it should.

Most were in smaller groups, rather than one collective conversation. Hermione remained by Draco's side, and avoided Emily's eye. She was with Bethany and Ernie MacMillan, though she hadn't taken her eyes off Hermione and Draco.

"Wow, four minutes, so proud of you Malfoy," Blaise yawned, as he leaned on his broom for support. "You're a stallion, mate."

"Double your usual time, too." Theo agreed, solemn.

"Thank you for keeping track," Draco kicked his broom onto his shoulder, in a motion that reminded Hermione again how much he resembled a dancer. "If only you could both strive for more than two minutes, combined."

"Actually, four minutes is a statistically average duration for sex, though upper averages can be around eleven minutes."

Audible confusion burst across the trio, as Hermione realized she'd recited a fact from one of those puberty books her mother had made her read. 

"_Hermione_," Draco spat, scandalized. "I'm banning you from the Library."

"Wait, really? That's tragic." Theo frowned, concern brows angled downward.

"Duration doesn't dictate, _sorry for the pun_, quality. That's a common misconception about a man's personal worth, which is unfortunate. Furthermore, extended periods of penetrative intercourse does have an upper limit, depending on nerves on both parties, prior experience, foreplay, and -- " Hermione caught herself, as she realized they were staring at her out of shock rather than interest.

"What the fuck do you read, Granger!" Blaise laughed, so loud that the group pivoted to look at them.

"I'm sorry, my brain's like a sponge, it's really quite annoying, sometimes. I think I'm contributing to the conversation, but I'm just adding unnecessary information. It's just that human bodies are fascinating, aren't they?" She blinked up at him, her face pink from the rain and wind. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Draco dismissed, as he pulled her close. "It's cute, when you get wrapped up in facts."

"I don't know if possibly outdated statistics on sexual intercourse is cute -- "

And Draco kissed her.

It was simple, sweet, and he'd nudged her nose with his as he pulled back. There was a spark behind his eyes which she'd never seen before, and she couldn't help but wonder what had caused it.

Theo and Blaise had little change in their expressions like this was a common occurrence. She had to wonder if he'd told them about her, about their past kisses, but she had told Ginny.

"Draco," Blaise gasped. "I called dibs on her at the start of the semester."

Draco's head snapped in Blaise's direction, and all playful energy died with that.

Hermione squinted at Blaise, unsure what _dibs _even meant in the context of human interaction. She felt especially fuzzy today, from the cold, and from the flying. Her head felt like it'd been shaken loose, and her hair was wilder than ever.

"Who's playing, then?" Wood said, from the group of Gryffindors. She'd not even noticed him, as he had simple black robes on. He smiled and waved at her, and she returned the favor.

And Draco kissed her again, gently, before he walked over to snatch up a practice bib.

The crowd split, from Quidditch players to those watching. They had no Beaters, as it was too high-risk to have for casual playing. Instead, each side had a Keeper, a Seeker and three Chasers.

Hermione locked eyes with Ginny, who gave her a double thumbs-up.

Hermione wiped the dumb smile off her face, and looked among those who'd come to support the Quidditch. She saw Luna, who had her robes on backward, as well as Emily and Bethany. They'd already split off towards the stands without waiting for Hermione, so that was her answer. 

The teams split up, with Draco, Blaise and Theo now beside Daphne and Natalie, the pretty Ravenclaw girl who spoke with a faint French accent. She reminded Hermione of Fleur, though she spoke with more conviction and lacked the same presence as the part-Veela.

Across from them was Ginny, Ernie, Dean, Romilda and Neville.

Neville looked confused, which matched Hermione's expression.

The group met in the middle, to chat and assign their bibs. Each clarified their roles, and Hermione took to the stands with Luna.

(She had to grab Luna, to lead her away.)

"It's fun, being right." She looked at Draco, then back to Hermione, expectant.

"Oh, shut up."

Luna giggled behind her hands. She was so sweet and bright, it made Hermione want to slap her over the head. But she had been through the darkness as everyone else had, and come out with a smile. It was admirable, how dedicated she was to the pursuit of happiness.

Hermione had been the one to pull Luna, but she had taken the lead. She had Hermione's hand in hers, and it was like holding a child's hand. Only because she was so frail, so small. She hadn't gained any of the weight back, from before the war, though Hermione hadn't either.

"Do I want to ask why your robes are backward?"

"Do you?"

"Why are your robes backward, Luna?" Hermione rephrased, as they came to stand at the top of the Ravenclaw stand. It was the closest one, and the same one that Emily and Bethany had walked to.

"I felt like being different today," Luna twisted her lips into a smile. "And look, I can do..." She pulled the hood up, over her face. "If I want to nap during the game."

They took a seat, and Hermione realized she had her casual clothes beneath the robe. She really was using them as a blanket, against the cold. She always had three layers on, no matter the temperature.

"Did you come to rub it in?"

Hermione puffed up her chest before she turned to look at Emily.

She'd been crying. Bethany didn't look mad, she never did. They both looked tired and _done_, and Hermione wasn't sure if she should just move to a different stand.

"It's nice," Emily said, crisp. "I hope he's nicer to you than he was to me." She had her feet on the benches in front of her, as she watched them ascend.

Hermione didn't know what to say. Emily was far closer with Draco than she was with her, and anything she could say would sound false. She lifted her shoulder, only to slacken and turn to face forward.

"At least he got his five-for-five. I'm sure he'll be working on the other dorm next."

Hermione watched, as the players ascended. She didn't get Quidditch, not like Ginny or Ron, but she could appreciate her friends excelling in a sport. It was a bit of fun, and to Ginny, it was a potential career. She didn't think it was practical, but few things worth doing in life were. She watched as the game proceeded, back and forth.

Ginny and Draco were Seekers, though they seemed more concerned with flying next to one another. It seemed happy, though Ginny punched him several times, and he didn't retaliate. He allowed her to get close, and to match his pace. With the broom he had, compared to her borrowed one from the school, he could outstrip her with ease.

But he didn't.

He watched her speed, and only went as fast as she could.

Hermione felt a pang of pride, and of affection, and she watched as they dashed, over and over, as the Quaffle sped from end to end.

Though there were only four of them watching, they cheered and laughed when it seemed right. More than once they laughed as Neville fumbled with the Quaffle, but managed to score each time. Hermione wondered if Neville was secretly talented at Quidditch, if he'd just hidden it, or been too anxious to try. But the more he played, the wider his smile got and the more confident he became.

Draco would whizz past, and wink at her, and she rolled her eyes every time.

One time he stopped dead in front of her, inches away, and leaned in --

And Wood fouled him, which drew his attention. He flew off, with only a wink.

Did he thrive on being a tease?

Ridiculous, honestly.

A sick feeling of unease settled into her stomach. She hovered her hand, unsure what spurred it on. She looked back at Emily and Bethany, unsure if they'd done something. Luna had her hood over her face, and she was bundled up.

Bethany had a Dementor's hand wrapped around her throat, as it forced her head back.

Hermione stumbled backwards, and almost off the tower altogether. She caught herself on the barrier, which banged her elbow. She could see the strings of Bethany's bright white soul, as it disappeared into the gaping mouth of the ghastly figure. Hermione bunkered down, and thought of her conversation with Harry, Ron and Ginny, in the fireplace, how they'd joked, of her time in Diagon Alley with Ginny as they laughed about potions, she thought of Draco's hands against her cheeks, as he wiped away pollen, she thought of Draco, as he bracketed her beneath his arm, and winked down at her.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

Hermione looked at her hand, her wand, but she'd not yet cast.

It couldn't be hers. Her Patronus was a little otter, not a seven-foot dragon.

And yet it sparked from her wand, and her hair lifted with the force of it. She felt the warmth radiate out from her chest, all her happiest memories, burned into her mind so fresh. She had older ones, that acted like kindling, but she relied on the way Draco had whisked her onto his broom and kissed her without hesitation.

The problem was that it hadn't been _one_ Dementor. Four others hovered in the distance, as they considered their approach,

One had gotten greedy.

Wood skidded onto the viewing platform, as he grabbed both Emily and Bethany, one in each arm. He yanked them behind him, and shouted at Hermione, to do something, anything.

But this was all she could do.

Her Patronus, the dragon, soared around it in tight circles and singed away its edges. The Dementor cried, which sounded like the laughter of Bellatrix, and a flurry of screams. It whisked into the Forbidden Forest, followed by her Patronus and it's cohorts. The dragon screamed in return, so visceral, so _alive_ as if it captured the fire in her. The white glow shot after them, like a fireball, but made of mist and silver.

She didn't miss the otter.

These Dementors were larger than the ones she'd seen before, with no cool indifference. They were manic and starving, and worst of all, they were free. These were the Dementors that Voldemort had starved, and locked away, only to feed enough to keep alive. And they'd been turned loose, on the school, or Hogsmeade, or somewhere nearby.

Bethany was in shock, wide-eyed and lost.

Ginny landed, to check on Luna, and the rest of the flyers took to the forest. They skimmed the perimeter of the forest, their wands out.

Hermione looked around for Draco.

And she saw him, on the ground below.

He'd fallen.


	31. of lilies and roses.

Hermione looked around, dread weighted in her stomach. She had been so focused on the Dementor behind her that she'd lost sight of the match. She'd not seen him fall, whether it'd been an accident, or... Had a Dementor flanked the players?

Her fingers dug deep into the wet wood, as her nails left marks in the exposed surface. She should run down to him, or jump the bannister, but it was over forty meters to the ground. There were spells she could cast, or she could risk running down to him, but her gaze was locked on them, she had to know.

She watched Blaise and Theo as they jumped from their brooms. They'd gotten close to the ground, but there was still a good five meters before they'd land. Theo stumbled to his knees but kept moving. Blaise hit the ground running, and got to him first.

And he was motionless, even as they adjusted him into Blaise's lap.

Hermione looked at Ginny, motioned to her broom. Ginny had a dopey Luna in her lap, as the girl had been snoozing beneath her hood.

The broom slammed into her palm with her gaze alone. She'd never managed that in her Flying lessons.

She had never needed a broom, not like this.

Hermione steeled her nerves before she kicked off. Her gaze was fixed on the ground below, where the three Slytherin boys were bunched together.

The other players had gathered, curious and frightened. Natalie was in tears, and she'd buried her face into Neville's shoulder. A few others looked on with tears and frowns. It was hard to tell in flight, at a distance.

Her stomach sunk.

There's no way.

The flight down was over in seconds, but it felt like forever. She landed a dozen meters away from the group, afraid she might not be able to stop otherwise.

She tossed the broom aside and drew out her wand. She had to be able to do something.

Her nails dug into her palms as she watched from a distance, as Blaise and Theo propped him up. She didn't want to crowd him, or get in the way.

But she was ready, to do something, anything.

"He's breathing," Blaise hovered his hand by Draco's mouth. He dropped it away, and looked to the horseshoe of students in front of him.

There was a shift in Draco's chest, though his neck was at a strange angle. The black marks from the teeth resurfaced, twice as large, and pulsed in a pattern. Silver and black swirled beneath the surface, as they spread with each beat.

Theo stood by their side, his thin figure shivered in the cold that the Dementors had brought with them.

Wood landed beside Hermione, and shot her a worried look. He had Bethany with him, though she was on her feet and red in the face. She was cuddled up against Wood and trying not to look as pleased about it as she was. When Wood saw Draco, in Blaise's lap, he let Bethany go with a gentle pat to her shoulder.

He, Theo and Blaise hoisted Draco up, and she watched as they rushed him towards the castle.

* * *

Hermione fought both the urge to cry and the urge to throw up. They alternated, as she watched the plain stone wall across from her. She waited to see which impulse would win, but she felt frozen, inside out. The Medical Wing was one she'd been in, as a patient and a visitor, too many times. It never got easier, to wait idle for the news.

She sat, blind eyes focused on the cabinet of elixirs. She and Draco had made some of them. She could see his handwriting, silver and looped, and so pretty.

Madame Pomfrey walked by, around and around, and Hermione wondered if she was actually doing anything. She couldn't be.

Ginny was beside her, as were Blaise, Emily and Theo. The five of them looked strange. They had nothing in common, except for concern over the welfare of a man they loved and loathed.

Except for Ginny, who had escorted Hermione to the castle, while the others had run Draco ahead.

Hermione had done the sensible thing and stayed on the grounds. She had to ensure that the Dementors were gone for good. She couldn't leave the others, as much as she wanted to.

She picked at her nails and at a hole in her jeans.

She didn't know how the hole had happened, but she'd doubled the size of with her worrying.

Selwyn passed by the group, as had Flickwick.

Then Mrs. Malfoy, who caught Hermione's eye as she passed. Hermione couldn't hide her surprise, as the woman smiled at her, however tense. She wore a beautiful green dress, that tapered at the waist with corset details in silver. It unfurled into a flowery bottom, edged with silver thread and glittering emeralds.

How did she have the time or money for such things. Hermione remembered their spare mansion and house, with twelve others, and it didn't seem so ridiculous.

Flickwick reemerged, to tell them they should go back to their dorms. They'd all missed dinner by this point, and it was pressing into curfew.

They were asked to leave, which they obliged.

Even if Hermione didn't _want_ to leave.

She fussed with her ring all the way back to her dorms and hugged Ginny goodbye. They hadn't spoken while they waited, for which Hermione was thankful.

"_Me in lucem..._"

Hermione smiled, as much as it was difficult for her to do. She willed the rest of the phrase, the same one from the key on her necklace.

_"De tenebris._"

She wondered what Ron and Snape would think about such a cryptic message.

* * *

> _ **October 18th, 1998.** _

"May I be the first to suggest a _Dumbledore's A Piece Of Shit _monument -- " Sirius spread his hands as if to display a banner above his head. "You can piss on his grave for just one Sickle."

"Sirius!" Ayers slapped his knee, with a stern look on her face.

"Strange, to find common ground with you of all people Black," Snape said, no longer guised in Grimwald's flesh.

"I think that's a little much," Harry turned red to his ears, though he had a slanted smile.

The Shrieking Shack had become less cobwebbed and ruined, though Hermione noticed the scratch marks seemed to have shifted. Or, more had been added. She thought of the werewolves that lived in the Forbidden Forest, which she'd heard howl earlier in the month.

Harry was seated on the couch, while Snape had an armchair. Sirius was on the floor, with Ayers by his side. They had an assortment of papers and books in front of them, which Ayers was sorting through. Hermione had taken to pacing in front of the unused fireplace and wore a path into the dust. Ron moped in the seat of a bay window, as he watched the street outside.

Empty meal containers were strewn on the floor, from the shared lunch. Hermione and Ayers had done their best to recount the notebook they'd found in Dumbledore's office. They told them their theories and did their best to explain what an Amourdonne was.

It was difficult, in how complex it was, and how distracted Hermione was.

"The more we hear about the old codger, plus all the shit he made me put up with after I got out of Azkaban..." Sirius ran his hands over his face. "If he'd just told you kids what was going on, you'd have done a far sight better. You work things out anyway, and who'd it help? All the lies didn't do shit! And that's not even to mention how he _asked_ you to go after those fucking Horcruxes, casually, when you're _seventeen_ \-- " Sirius babbled, his teeth gnashing around each word.

Ayers reached out to put her hand on Sirius' hand, which stopped him in his tracks. She patted his hand, twice, and then moved to pick up the notebook with a smile.

"It's all a little floaty, isn't it, but in essense, I believe I'm a Light Arts equivalent to the Horcrux, regarding _your _mortal soul, Harry."

"Yeah, I..." Harry frowned. "What?"

"Which part is confusing you?" Ayers arched a brow, with a polite smile still in place.

"So you're..." Harry began, as he tried to process the information they'd dumped onto him. "You're... My spirit mum?"

"No, no, I'm... I'm sorry, I'm not your mum, Harry," Ayers squinted at Harry, as if she couldn't see what he meant. As if her bright green eyes and red hair were so radically unlike Lily's. "Think of it this way. Did you study Ancient Runes?"

Harry shook his head. Ron looked over to them, though he refused to look at Ayers directly. Hermione had one guess as to why, given Ayers had ditched her heavy overcoat and her low cut top.

Hermione stifled a scoff.

"Well, in Ancient Runes, they have bindrunes. These ward against certain things, you can specify things like, protection from nature, or protection from anger, specific emotions, or people. Wards are used in so many places, but an Amourdonne is very unique in that it requires a stranger to pledge their life for a child they don't know -- like, an act of total selflessness. The opposite to a Horcrux, which is all about taking a life against their will, and murder. An Amourdonne is about _giving _a life if needed." Ayers grabbed an empty glass and stuck a Bertie Bott's jellybean beneath it. She set the glass on the ground, so it acted as a barrier between the bean and the room at large.

"Yeah, so, you're like, a shield?"

"Just think of it this way," Ayers gestured at her example of the jellybean and the glass. "You're the jellybean, and I'm the glass. People can throw whatever they like at you, but it'll always hit me. But if they take me out, specifically..." She lifted the glass. "Then they can get to you."

"So he's inside you?" Ron laughed before he caught himself. He sank further into the bay window seat as if he could hide from his dumb joke.

Sirius and Snape shot Ron a matched look of contempt. Though Sirius looked amused beneath the annoyance, while Snape looked ready to kill.

"I didn't mean like..." Ron frowned. "Well, that's what that _is_, isn't it?"

"If anything, Lily's inside me, but I -- " Ayers frowned, as she looked at the ceiling. "I try not to think about it."

Sirius giggled beside Ayers, but didn't help in any way. He had his arm propped, so he was leaned towards Ayers, and his legs were sprawled alongside the papers. Snape looked livid, as ever. It was strange to see him, with his greasy black hair and sallow skin.

It was like a corpse back in motion.

"I, at some point which I don't recall, promised to act as a ward, a living protective charm, a personification of your mother's love for you. A safeguard alongside the magic that kept you hidden until you were seventeen." She brushed a chunk of her long hair over her shoulder, which reminded Hermione of Ginny.

"But that barrier broke when I was seventeen."

"Yes, _that_ part of the protective magic broke. I don't think the Amourdonne is that. I actually believe that Dumbledore used The Trace magic from within the Ministry, but modified it somehow. So, he made you -- I suppose, Untraceable. At least to those who sought to do you harm." Ayers crossed her legs, and pointed back to the glass. "But my soul acts like a shield for you, hm, sort of like a Patronus, or Protean charm. But only because neither of us knew of the magic, and I had no direct interactions with you before now. I don't know if meeting you, and acknowledging it... If that would disrupt the bond."

"You said it's a stranger, that has to make a promise," Ron interjected, as he puzzled through the problem. "But you're not strangers."

"This is old magic, it's not so black and white. I wish I could easily just shake Harry's hand, to make the spell wear off."

"Dumbledore needed Harry to destroy all the Horcruxes, and then go for Voldemort himself. The order was very specific." Hermione continued to pace in a circle. "What if after the Horcruxes were destroyed, but before he went after Voldemort, we were meant to find out, about Ayers."

"And kill her," Harry said, sharp and decisive. "You think Dumbledore lined her up, to have her killed?"

Sirius and Snape exchanged a look, which Hermione presumed had to do with how close Sirius had gotten to Ayers. He was half-curled around her, as he looked over the papers. Ayers shuffled them, with dates and photos. Some were of her, and some were of Alice. They had records of their schooling, along with her own and Amelia Bones', as if trying to pinpoint the overlap.

She noticed how close Sirius had gotten, and angled her notes for him to read better. He tucked his chin onto her shoulder and winked at Snape, with a smirk. Ayers was too invested in her notes to notice the rivalry.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Dumbledore mentioned," Sirius shifted, to sit up properly. He folded his hands into his lap and set his elbows on his knees. "When we discussed hiding the Potters back in nineteen-eighty, he asked if I would do anything for them. If I would want the best for Harry."

"Empty platitudes," Snape cut in, to shut Sirius up.

"But, I don't think it was." Sirius pulled the notebook up. "It says, a godparent could act as an intermediate, between the Amourdonne and the Amourdonnee."

"You had nothing to do with it, Black."

"How d'you know that, hm?" He snapped the book shut, and tossed it onto the floor. "Something to share with the class, Snivvy?"

(Ayers and Hermione flinched in unison at the delicate book being throw.)

"You cannot handle things being about someone else, they must be about _you_. If you were involved, you'd _remember_ it. So don't muddy the narrative with your attention-seeking arrogance." Snape looked to Ayers, solemn in his expression. "Whatever plans Dumbledore set into motion failed. You're safe. And if you aren't, you're at Hogwarts, and every measure has been taken to protect the school."

"Dementors broke in from the Forbidden Forest and attacked the students," Ayers stared back at him, visible tension in her shoulders. "You call that safe?"

Hermione thought about the memories she had, back in her dorm. And the single memory, linked to the same date at the end of the notebook. She fidgeted with her hands, as she realized she may have the missing piece of the puzzle. But with the people involved, she didn't know who to trust. There was a lie in all of this, whether Sirius or Ayers knew the truth, or if Snape was out to cover up for Dumbledore.

"So wait," Harry rolled his fingers, a strange smile on his lips. " That means I didn't die? And Voldemort's still out there, and Ayers has to die for me to die, to stop all that?"

"That's one theory," Hermione cut in, with a wave of her hands. "We're not sure if when you were killed if that was enough to sever the tie to his soul, to set it loose."

"What d'you mean?" Ron picked at his sneakers, frowning.

"Quirrel wasn't a Horcrux originally, but he held a part of Voldemort inside him. It was -- transferred to him, wasn't it? So what if..." She strained her lips, unable to say it out loud. "What if that last fragment of Voldemort feigned death, for a moment, while it found a new host?"

The room was quiet, and the rain outside doubled down. It'd been raining all afternoon, but this had turned torrential. She could hear the shutters blow and the house creak.

And she swore she heard the floorboards above creak.

"Right piece of work, isn't he." Ron snorted. "Keeps on poppin' back up."

Hermione glanced at how Sirius had taken Ayers' hand into his own and thumbed her fingers. She looked exhausted as if she'd not slept since she'd first read the book. Perhaps she hadn't. It was a lot to learn, that you might have sold your soul as a fifteen-year-old. But she smiled limp and lazy at Sirius, who shot her a matching one.

"For now," Snape cut through the silence, to stand. "We can keep our ears and eyes open, and report _all_ findings."

Sirius snorted, loudly.

"Something on your mind, Black?"

"I mean, your buddy Voldemort's back. As are you. Seems very coincidental," Sirius stared up at Snape, as if it were obvious. "Sure you're not gonna have a change of heart?"

Snape wasn't looking at Sirius, but rather at Ayers. He didn't respond and instead waved for her to stand. And she did, flat and despondent. Sirius' hand followed hers up, and she shot him an apologetic smile.

"We have to work together, Pup." Ayers adjusted her glasses and pulled her coat back on.

"My point exactly," Sirius growled and shoved himself to his feet, while Ron, Hermione, and Harry tried to blend into the scenery. They were all looking at the ceiling or floor as if they had a sudden interest in architecture.

"Are we going to have this argument every time we see one another?" Snape asked, plain and bored.

"Don't forget who you are," Sirius shoved Snape in the chest, with the flat of his palm. "Who you _actually_ are. Not who you're pretending to be." And he looked over the group before he vanished upstairs.

Snape and Ayers watched his back, and then looked at one another. It was difficult to read them, but Ayers held Snape's arm as he brought out his flask. He downed it, and the slow, grueling process of transformation overtook him. Although they all knew it was painful, he showed no outward response. He just stared, at the floor, as his hair turned white-blond and his eyes lightened to ocean depths blue.

"Hermione," Snape said, before he'd cloaked his voice. "Don't stay out too late. Draco will worry." And he smirked, as the pair turned to leave the Shack. Ayers shot him a confused look, but followed, her arm interlocked with his. A mask slipped into place, as she smiled, and Hermione saw the flash of a ring, one that she'd not noticed before.

But hadn't she called off the engagement?

"Weird way to leave," Ron smiled, buried in denial. "Not like he's your boyfriend or something."


	32. a history of eclectic book choices.

> _ **October 18th, 1998. Except, much later.** _

It wasn't the right time, she told herself.

Ron and Harry learned about the Amourdonne, which up until that point, Harry had no idea about it. There was Voldemort, and more of Dumbledore's lies to unpack, and wasn't _that_ the real focus of their afternoon. It would be selfish to bring up her -- _whatever_ she had, with Draco.

Hermione arrived back to the dorms, to find Draco wasn't back yet. Blaise pointed her towards the Hospital Wing, though he looked no more happy or sad.

She grabbed a set of six books she'd picked out from the Library with the help of her ring, and marched up to the Hospital Wing.

She had a boy to visit and a point to prove.

Except, because of her frantic Library escapade, it was nine in the evening.

And visiting hours were not at nine in the evening.

She flattened the map against her palm and inched it around as she worked her way through the castle. Nine wasn't strictly after curfew, but it was a Sunday night, and people had classes as early as nine. They needed to eat breakfast, to sleep, all that good stuff. She didn't want to run into a Prefect and have them polite laugh about her being up after hours, and then she'd have to hex them, and it would just be a mess.

It was their own fault for putting Draco into a pseudo-quarantine.

She reached Hospital Wing archway in no time. She crept through the passageway and watched as Madame Pomfrey made her way down to the dungeons. She had her quarters down there, as she had been a Hufflepuff back in her time as a student, which Hermione thought was a fun fact, and that's how she knew she was nervous because she relied on fun facts to ease her nerves.

She had come up here to drop the books off with a note, and then she'd be on her way. She would leave them, kiss him on the forehead, and trot off back to bed. It wasn't as if she were here to worry him, or annoy him. He wouldn't even know she'd been there.

She expected him to be passed out, but he wasn't.

Draco was propped up in his bed, with a stretch of parchment and his History books laid beside him. He was in the midst of an essay, and his brow would twitch. She figured it was whenever he felt especially clever it would twitch, as hers did the same thing. They weren't identical, but she could relate to an eyebrow twitch as your own cleverness quite well.

"Um, hello," she fumbled for words, her satchel too heavy for her to rush.

"Um, hi," he mimicked her voice and looked at her with deeply bruised eyes.

And then she began to take in the cosmetic issues, ones that she'd overlooked in her excitement to see him awake.

"Oh my God," she exhaled, as she set her bag down a few beds away, to close the gap.

"I've had worse." He winced, as she took his jaw gently into her hands. 

"Oh, don't be macho," she fussed, as she kissed him gently on the forehead, as that had been her plan, and she had to do that at least. She saw how bruised he was around his eyes and his neck, like he'd landed headfirst onto the ground.

"I actually did fall this time." He smiled at her, like he'd not almost died.

"What happened?" She fussed, as she let her hands drop away. She didn't want to hurt him further, or press on his bruises. The elixirs were no doubt going to have him okay by tomorrow, as it seemed to be a very mundane injury all things considered. Not magical, not Dementor-related, just a bad fall. The Quidditch pitch was enchanted to be softer, so it wasn't as if it were a death trap. But that's why it was better to fly in pairs, or with a referee, to keep an eye out.

"Blacked out," he settled back, a smile too wide given his situation. "Remember how Potter used to pass out, over Dementors? How I mocked him for it?"

Hermione grimaced.

"I heard my mother screaming. Green flashes. Felt real," he rubbed at his eyes, which made him hiss. "And pain, too, which surprised me. Like _Crucio_ all over again, but more than that. Dementors, they bring -- everything, to the surface." He looked at her forearm for a moment too long. "I broke my neck, when I landed. That's a new one, so very fun."

Hermione's eyebrows bounced so high she might have lost them to her hair.

"I _should_ be dead." He rubbed at his neck, and laughed, and she couldn't figure him out. "Honestly at this point, _why_ am I alive. Why. First those bone wraith things, now Dementors, and straight-up fucking _gravity_. I get something good, and..."

"Neither of those things were because of us."

"No, they're because of_ me_." He shook his head, as he sat upright. "Twice, Hermione, twice now you're almost gotten killed because of me."

"How do you figure that?" Hermione huffed, her hands thrown into the air. "The Dementor went after Bethany. Don't spin this as some grand, universal reason that we can't just..." She hissed through her teeth, as she avoided the words, the real ones, the words that would make this real and complete. She instead marched over to her bag, and walked to the end of his bed.

"Oh, gifts?" He yanked his feet back, as she tipped it upside-down. "I'd prefer a little _special_ attention, rather than books."

"First year, _Tips for Muggleborn Witches and Wizards_." Hermione tossed the book, and it landed with the cover wide open. "Second year, _One Hundred Great Witches From The Past One Hundred Years_." She tossed that one, too, the cover thrown open and a piece of paper flapping in the gust.

"What are these?"

"Third year,_ Time Management For Busy Witches_."

Draco moved each book, so they'd not land on one another. He looked at them, confused and red in the face.

"Fourth year, _Glamour Tricks For Simple Witches._ Fifth year -- "

"You've made your point."

"Fifth year,_ Long Distance Communication In Modern Witchcraft_."

Draco watched her, his jaw set. He'd stopped trying to save the books from one another, too affixed to Hermione, who continued to list them.

"And Sixth year..." Hermione met his eye, her gaze unfaltering. "_What To Do With A Broken Heart: A Witch's Guide To Romantic Revenge_."

"I almost die, and you go out of your way to blackmail me with my history of eclectic book choices?"

"Well, it's strange isn't it!" She pointed to each of them, seated on the edge of the bed now. "These books aren't academic. They were indulgences, and frankly, out of your natural area of interest."

Draco couldn't speak, though she could see he wanted to.

"And yet you borrowed each of them, right after _I_ had." She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "There were more examples, but they were textbooks, or a believable coincidence, but... What possible need would you have for _glamour_ charms?"

"Even wizards need help from time to time." Draco made a gesture with his hand, as if to brush away all the books. He looked at her, deeply, as if to beg her to drop the conversation altogether.

"What was it, really," Hermione said, her voice stern.

Draco stared at her, as he weighed his options. But he was locked in his bed, from his injuries, and she had all the time in the world. He conceded, in the form of an exaggerated sigh and a wave of his arms. "My parents were furious about my grades, and, I thought if I just matched your personal reading, I could catch up. I thought you must be cheating, or finding books that were giving you better information."

"But you must've realized these books weren't for that."

"Look," he laughed, a wet sound from low in his chest. "Do you honestly think I could speak to you, directly?"

"You could have if you wanted to." She moved the books to his side table, as they'd made her point for her. "I would have been your friend if you'd asked."

"That isn't how it works, Hermione."

"It is, with me." Hermione tried not to fall into her pit of First year, when she'd had more toothbrushes than friends. 

"I got to see what was going on, in your head, with the books you borrowed." He waved a hand. As if he could dismiss the evidence she'd strewn across his bed. "I didn't watch for for every single book. Madame Pince helped, or put them on hold, and... I was just curious, about you."

"When did you start liking me?"

Draco became still like a marble statue, though he continued to radiate pink across his exposed skin. 

"Because I know it must have started, somewhere in all this." She gestured with her arm at the books.

"It's not that simple for me." He relaxed back onto the bed, as he stared up at the ceiling. "I hated you. I hated you _so _ much."

"I don't think that's true," Hermione reached out to take his hand.

And he allowed her to.

He laughed, at nothing, and shook his head. "I wish I was half the man you think I am."

Hermione scooted closer, to tip his head with a gentle touch. "Third year."

"Pardon?"

"I realized, Third year." Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, her lips still tugged into a smile. "It wasn't some grand moment, I didn't suddenly draw your name in little hearts. I knew who you were, but, you smiled at a joke that Goyle told, and you laughed, and I just remember thinking that you looked so different with a smile. It was right before you insulted Buckbeak, actually, and I panicked. I was afraid, for you, and... I didn't want you to be hurt."

Draco searched her face for the lie, but he couldn't seem to find one. He leaned into her hand, the blush still on his pale skin. She was thankful she wasn't as fair as him, because at least her emotions weren't so plain on her skin. She could see his Dark Mark, black and bubbling around the edges. He was in a hospital gown, one that was as translucent as him.

"You were still a prat, and I don't regret smacking you, but," she pinched her lips together, to stop herself.

"Don't take this the wrong way." He cocked a brow at her. "Maybe I was fascinated by you, at first. Some Muggleborn girl turns up, knows more than more Pureblooded students, I doubted you. I thought you were cheating." He licked his lips and adjusted his posture, so he was seated rather than reclined. He pulled her hands into his. "I don't think I _liked_ you, per se. Blood things, family things, it wasn't... Maybe I did like you, but I didn't realize, until..."

"Just say it."

"I realized when I saw you at Yule Ball, with Krum." He exhaled, heavy and guilt-ridden. "But, not how you're thinking."

"Oh," Hermione rolled her eyes, and withdrew her hands. "You liked me once I had my teeth fixed and my hair all sleek. I hadn't realized you and Ron were so alike -- "

"I hated how you looked."

Hermione's head tipped to the side, and she lost her momentum.

"I love you hair, how it is now." He hadn't caught himself, on the word he'd used, but he pressed on. "I saw you, unlike yourself. Without the thick jumper or the wild hair, things I'd sneer at... Those were the things that I liked about you, a lot, actually, but it's not..." He stumbled, as his eyes darted around. "All my life, I've been groomed for a shallow world, where someone is judged based on their blood and their fabrics. It's so narrow, so set. You're taught how to speak, how to walk, and you do whatever it is that people are known to like, and it's a performance."

Hermione swallowed loudly, as she scooted closer to him.

"I always thought, if you were more like Emily, or Pansy, then maybe I would be allowed to like you. But it was the opposite; I liked you because you were unlike other people, and I didn't need permission for it. You were so loud, and you loved to be right, you bounced about quizzes and essay results, and you had more hair than anyone really should ever have, but the second all that vanished, and you were just another girl in the crowd, I realized, you weren't just another girl in the crowd."

Hermione smiled at him, as she inched closer.

"Does that make sense? I've had a lot of elixirs." He looked like he was in pain, as if he wanted to cram all the words back into his mouth. 

Which Hermione assisted him with, as she leaned in to kiss him.

Draco melted into it, with ease that he had no right having. This was the Hospital Wing, after all, but she didn't mind as he dragged her onto his lap. She was gentle with him, given the bright bruises all over his face and neck.

This gentleness wasn't returned, however, as he curled his fingers into her hair and drew her head back. He peppered kisses along her throat and kept her head tilted, and she really shouldn't enjoy the prickles of pain along her scalp, but it was like when you brushed your hair too hard.

Was that weird? Oh no.

"It's a shame, about yesterday." He mumbled into the flesh of her throat, as his teeth found a way beneath her jumper.

"The Dementors?" Hermione laughed, breathy, as she fought down the sweep of blood and heat through her body. "I hope we're able to repel them."

Draco made a sound, of amusement, before he yanked her head to angle his mouth against her ear. It wasn't harsh, rather, it was rather pleasant. And she needed to examine that, later. "I meant more, my plans got derailed."

"Oh," Hermione pouted, as he allowed her enough room to look at him. She was straddling his lap now, though she had jeans and sneakers on. It felt rather strange, to be so intimately entangled with Draco in the Hospital Wing, but he had a firm grip on her hips. She couldn't get away, not without leaving him altogether.

Draco searched her face, and smiled wider, and she felt she was out of the loop.

"Did you have lunch plans..?"

"You, Hermione," he said, bluntly. "Time alone with you."

Hermione squinted at the ceiling, as she tried to piece together what he meant. "We didn't have plans, per se. Did we?"

Draco yanked her close again, one hand still on her hips while the other was worked into the hair at the nape of her neck. He kissed her, until she couldn't breathe, and he allowed her the space to do so. Their foreheads remained touching, though their noses knocked and his breath played across her face.

"Ah, I see, _you_ had plans, and you weren't going to tell me." Hermione fluttered her eyelashes, more out of the heat that had built between them.

"That's no fun." Draco pouted, and pecked her once, twice, to tease her close again. She followed each kiss and made a sound of annoyance when he leaned away altogether. He reclined again, while she was seated on his lap, and this was suddenly very much a different arrangement, with the space to look down at him, with the blush in her cheeks and the hands that were on her hips. 

"Actually, it's quite fun, telling people if you have plans with them."

"Okay fine," Draco dug his fingers into her hips, and she realized he'd become hard beneath her. She nearly jumped, but the pressure of his fingers had kept her in place, by design. He'd learned since the Potions classroom, that she was jumpy.

She didn't know if _he_ knew he was hard, because -- well, she didn't know, it wasn't something she'd had experience with, except for that one time Ron grabbed her hand and stuffed it into the crotch of his jeans, and she'd punched him in the balls by mistake out of surprise.

Anyway.

Draco, Hospital Wing, erection pressed between her and the sheets, and more bruises than pale skin on his face.

Oh dear.

"You okay?" He asked, a smile in his voice.

"Amazing." She blushed, across her face, and adjusted herself, which drew the most sinful sound of Draco that she'd ever heard, and it'd been by mistake. "Sorry."

Draco stared at her, confused, as he broke into laughter. He exhaled through exposed teeth and thumbed her bare skin with his calloused thumbs. They weren't as harsh as others, but they still felt nice, and she wriggled against the sensation. And he moaned again, and she realized she needed to stop moving.

"You're still hurt, and..." Hermione pushed herself up, a fraction, so she wasn't against him. "This isn't really, a good place."

Draco conceded, which surprised her. She expected him to beg, or to whine, but he did neither. "Hence why it's a shame we'd not made it to after practice. If you give it twenty minutes or so, the locker rooms are very empty and very secluded."

And he winked at her, lips red from the kisses and his face still purple.

Hermione felt herself phase out of existence, at the idea of alone time with Draco post-Quidditch, in a place that was secluded.

"Well, if you stay out of the hospital for more than a week..." Hermione pushed up, to get off the bed and off of Draco. He pouted at her, as she got up, but lost the expression with another laugh. He caught her hand and pulled her close, to kiss her gently and with practiced movements.

* * *

> _**October 19th, 1998. Dinner time.** _

"So, you gonna need some of my special potions soon, Hermione?"

Ginny was geared up for Quidditch practice, as the season approached. The Dementors had been dealt with, it seemed, and the Professors had set up wards to alert them if Dementors arrived. In their haste to prevent immediate, harmful magic, they had forgotten to reinstate safeguards for basic things.

Such as wards against Dementors.

"Special potions?" Hermione asked with a frown.

"Anti-baby potions."

"Why would you want to be anti-baby, they're so squishy." Luna pouted.

Ginny pinched Luna's cheek, and she giggled.

Sickening.

"I have that under control, not that it's really an issue." Hermione pushed around her food on her plate. Draco hadn't been released from the Hospital Wing yet, but they said he'd be back tonight. She was going to escort him back to the dorms, as that was the responsible thing to do. She looked at the Slytherin table, though he wasn't there.

"Ginny."

Ginny exhaled, so hard that one of the candles above her went out.

"I hope you won't let Quidditch impact your Prefect patrols."

"McRory, I will impact more than your Prefect patrols if you get onto me about my Quidditch schedule." She stabbed a sausage, and bit half of it with one bite. "Don't fucking test me."

McRory moved on, head down and his face bright red.

"He's fun." Luna smiled.

Ginny mock-laughed, and spat out the sausage she'd bitten into for dramatic effect. Hermione winced.

"I do think it's nice though, that Hermione's Patronus is a dragon now. Isn't it?" She picked up a cherry tomato, and peeled the skin with her teeth. She then popped the stripped thing into her mouth, and smiled brightly. "I wonder if Draco's Patronus changed, too."

"You were right about the books, Luna." Hermione smiled at the blonde, who lit up.

"It's sweet, isn't it! A little demented and sad, sure, but I think his heart was in the right place." Luna proceeded to eat her cherry tomatoes in the same fashion, skinning them carefully, then eating the bared innards.

"I find it weird though, that you wouldn't just shag him, all that..." Ginny waved her hands, like she was wafting a smell at herself. "Tension."

"Tension." Hermione echoed, deadpan.

"She's right, Hermione." Luna nodded, solemn. "Not so much about the sex, but the tension is going to draw the attention of Swindleswoops."

Hermione blinked, slow and out of time.

"They burrow into your skin, like a tick, but they fill you with little... I suppose it's like, a love potion, but not. It'll make you go crazy if you submerge yourself in sexual tension with someone for too long." Luna sounded as serious as ever, with the sweet furrow in her brow and the pout of her pink lips. She was too sweet to use words like "sexual tension" in full earnest.

"I'll make sure to check for Swaggleswoops every night."

"Swindleswoops," Luna corrected, unaffected.

"I have to go pick up Draco," Hermione shoved herself up, as she waved off the girls. She climbed the stairs, up to the Hospital Wing. It was a quick route and she rushed most of the way. 

As she turned the final corner, she came face to face with Selwyn and Draco.


	33. as long as you need.

> _**October 19th, 1998.** _

Hermione raised her head and stared down Selwyn.

"Do I want to ask why you're out past curfew, Ms. Granger?"

"Oh," she checked her watch. "It's two hours before curfew." She tapped the watch face at Selwyn, a pout on her face.

"I asked her to come up, to see me back to the dorms." Draco waved at Hermione, to encourage her closer. She walked, stiff-legged, and stood beside Draco.

Selwyn frowned, as if he'd been denied the simple pleasure of giving Hermione another unwarranted detention. He adjusted his posture and looked back to Draco with as serious an expression as ever. If he had something to say, it went unsaid, and he turned to leave.

"What did he want?"

Draco framed her cheeks between his hands and encouraged her closer. She did so, with ease, though her heart doubled in pace as she stared up at him. He searched her eyes, and she stared back with a confused tilt to her brows.

"Draco?"

The corners of his lips kicked into a smirk, and he rolled his eyes. He closed the gap, to press a kiss to her lips, and it was strange that this had become normal. He held her there for longer than she realized, and she had to pull back first. She frowned up at him, confused, but she remained in front of him. He seemed stiff, which could have been from his injuries, or from the little black marks that peppered his face. They weren't as bad now, but she worried about them.

Would they get worse?

"You lied." He smiled, as they headed down towards the Great Hall exit.

"What do you mean?"

"The notebook." He didn't wait for her, though she kept pace with him with ease. He walked slow and languid as if he didn't care about anything, and she was like a hummingbird, speedy and desperate. "Blood purity? Selwyn told me."

"I didn't want to worry you."

Draco had his hands in his pockets. He didn't look at her, didn't deign it necessary, as he continued through the hallways.

"And I didn't know, if it was real, or relevant -- "

"Don't lie to me _now_, Hermione. It's a bit late for that." He scoffed, teeth bared as he looked at her.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, as she followed his pace. They wormed their way down through the narrow corridors and the too-small passageways.

"It doesn't matter, anyway. I know all about it now."

"What did he tell you?" Hermione asked, softly.

"Enough." He exhaled through his teeth and looped an arm around her shoulders.

* * *

> _**October 23rd, 1998.** _

Classes began to intensify, which was as fun for Hermione as it was stressful. She lost more of her nights to study sessions, which she shared with Neville, Bethany, Natalie, Paige, Ernie... It was a mix, of students she used to study alongside, and new people she'd found through the unity of their mixed dorms.

Draco would study with her, too, but he distracted her more than helped.

(They had spent the majority of Wednesday night making out in the Potions section of the Library, and so she barred him from studying alongside her unless he behaved.)

Instead, he was across the dorm with Emily, Blaise, Daphne, Pansy and Theo.

The dorms were so thoroughly split, she had to wonder if the house unity thing was even possible. Dean and several Ravenclaw boys had gone out to Hogsmeade with Padma and Parvarti. It was strange, almost like their dorms were more like an apartment complex, or more like a college dorm room than a Hogwarts one.

Hermione flipped through her notes, only to see that her Potions notes from that evening were missing.

Not just incomplete, but missing, altogether.

She dug through her books. She looked through her bag, and her purse. It wasn't until she looked up, to see Draco smirking so wide, that she realized.

"Be right back," she mumbled to her table, who smiled and nodded to varying degrees. They had their Charms notes out, as they compared the best way to set up a basic Caterwauling Charm for your home that wouldn't go off for the friends or family of the person who'd set it.

In a few short strides, Hermione slapped her hands down on the other table, the one that was smothered in Slytherins (and Emily).

She wished she'd not done that.

"Draco."

"Hermione."

"May I have my Potions notes."

Draco frowned at her, in a very admirable display of innocence. "I'm sorry?"

"I know you have my Potions notes." She pushed up from the table, to cross her arms. "So may I please have them?"

"Mh, sorry, not sure..." He trailed off, his index finger and thumb pressed to his chin. "Oh, wait, I see."

Hermione ignored how bereft Emily looked. Pansy couldn't care less, and for that Hermione was thankful. She sent a polite smile to Daphne and the boys, who returned the expression. It was strange, to have the barriers between houses so melted away.

"I took them by mistake." He exhaled as if it were such a silly thing to do. As if he'd not intentionally stolen them.

"Okay, so may I have them, please?"

"I left them in my dorm," he snapped his fingers and rested back in his chair. "And as you can see, I'm a little busy right now." He gestured around, at his friends, who feigned pouts and frowns. "Do you really expect me to leave them, to go get your notes?"

Hermione raised a brow at him, as she tried to assess what his angle was.

"Fine, you twisted my arm," he slapped his hands together and got to his feet.

"We'll miss you, Draco." Theo faked a sob.

"Please don't take long, I'm afraid of what might happen," Pansy drawled, as she smirked down at her parchment.

Hermione was missing something, and she didn't like it, not one bit. But she needed her notes from Potions, as she had to transcribe them and elaborate, as her class notes were functional and not a good study aide. She had color coding to do, and fact-checking, and then there was the revision itself.

As they descended into the dorms, she had a sinking feeling she'd made a mistake.

At least with regards to studying.

Hermione followed Draco, down the route to the boys' dorms, which she'd not yet been into. She tried to maintain indifference but failed when she saw the beautiful dark wood furniture and the color scheme of navy and silver. It looked similar to the Ravenclaw commonroom, but darker, almost leaning on the Slytherin aesthetic. She had to wonder if the girls' dorm was more of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor mixture, given their furniture leaned on warmer, lighter colors.

And she followed him down, towards his dorm, and her heart rate jumped twice as high.

"I'll wait out here," she smiled, sweetly.

"Oh?" Draco smiled. "Is the little Gryffindor afraid of the big, bad boys room?"

Hermione seemed to double in size, as indignance overtook any rational sense left in her. She rushed ahead of him, into the room, and stood with her hands on her hips. "Am I afraid of some smelly awful boys room?"

Smelly wasn't quite the word. It reminded her of Harry and Ron's dorm, though there was a heavy scent of cologne and something distinctly masculine that hit her in the stomach and the chest. She looked around, not really seeing, as she tried to pick out which bed belonged to Draco.

The boys' beds were identical to the girls, with the same black frames and white gauze curtains. They were opaque enough to be private, but light could be seen through them. 

In her search, she felt him brush past her. He let his hand rest on her lower back until he'd gotten past her. Draco leaned his shoulder on the metal bedpost in the corner, furthest from the door. She recognized his black dragon leather trunks and saw his scarf draped over the bedpost.

"So?" Hermione waved a hand at him, as if to hurry him along. "My notes?"

Draco rolled his eyes, so hard he moved with the motion. He snatched up a piece of parchment, which bore her handwriting. He wiggled it at her, to encourage her closer.

And she foolishly approached.

He held them out, though as she got closer, he pulled them further out of her grip. Each time she reached out, she only got closer to him, until she was flush against his chest.

"Did you steal my notes to lure me into your bedroom."

"Wow, no wonder they call you the brightest witch of your age." He deadpanned, his arms now looped around her waist and her notes hanging behind her.

"You could just say, Hermione, shall we go -- " she stumbled, at the words, unable to say them out loud, though she blamed her proximity to him.

"This is more fun." He smiled, and inched her closer, so when he fell back onto the bed, she had no choice but to follow. "It's quite _adorable_, how angry you get."

"That's incredibly awful," she scolded, nevermind the fact she was straddling him in the dark of his dorm. Their beds weren't so large as to have space for two people, but when she was on top of him, it wasn't as much of a problem. She adjusted herself, to try to get back up, and he let her.

"Let's go to Hogsmeade, this weekend."

"What?"

"I'm asking you on a date, Granger." He sat up, squinting at her in the dark. "Have you ever been asked on a date?"

"Not by someone so prattish." She massaged her face, blindly, before she went to snatch her notes again. He held them out of her reach, splayed on his bed and grinning wickedly.

"I'll give them back to you _after_ we go on a date."

"I need them now," she hissed.

"A pity."

Hermione scrambled back onto him and kissed him as deeply as he'd allow. He crumpled into her, his bruises now long gone and his neck healed. She could afford to be a little rougher, and to take him by surprise. He growled into the kiss, a self-congratulatory sound. His hand skimmed her ribs, to her lower back, before they toyed with the edge of her skirt.

For once, she didn't jump. The brush of his fingers against her thigh did make her start, just a little, but she didn't run. His hand skirted against the curve of her thigh, and where it folded into far more delicate skin. She remained still, and stole his breath with kisses. He moved slowly, cautiously, but withdrew on his own, to palm her thighs, her skirt a forgotten element in their embrace.

She mirrored his motions, as he'd done to her, to angle her mouth against his ear and moan just a little, just enough to make him shiver beneath her. 

Boldly, she moved her hand to his wrist -- 

And bounced back, her notes now procured, and a grin on her face.

"Hey!" He jumped to his feet. "That's cheating!"

"Is it?" She hummed. "I consider it winning."

Panic flooded her as she saw him rush towards her, and she bolted for the door. He chased her down the hall of the boys' dorm, to their shared lounge, around the black wood furniture, and up the stairs. She managed to escape him, into the room upstairs. He hissed through his teeth and returned to his seat with his friends as she went to hers, with her friends. She ignored how disheveled they both must look, and no one seemed to notice, or care.

And then she looked at the notes.

And she realized they were _last_ week's notes.

And he winked at her, and she was going to kill him.

* * *

> _**October 24th, 1998.** _

"You could have asked me on a date." Hermione sat across from Draco, in the little Muggle-style cafe that had opened in Hogsmeade.

"As I said," he sipped at his black coffee. "That was more fun."

The cafe had been opened in a little book shop that had become abandoned in the wake of the war. The owners had made a run for it, and Penelope Clearwater had picked up the slack. She had fashioned the store after her parents' cafe, which they ran in Muggle London. Hermione learned all this from a little blurb on the menu, which she'd read because she had to.

It was a nice contrast to the little cafe down the road, with too much perfume and pink. Madam Puddifoot's was sweet, sure, but it didn't inspire the same calm in Hermione as _Casu Capulus_.

(Which was _Coffee Cafe_ in Latin, which Hermione found a little on the nose.)

Their booth was off to the side and secluded. She adjusted her coat, which was thrown beside her, and fussed with her hair. She picked at the plaque on the table and fussed with the sugar containers, and all the while, Draco watched her.

"Something the matter?" He asked, sleek and slow. He sounded too much like his father.

"Your mother."

Draco blinked, unsure.

"Not your mother, specifically, but she invited me, to tea, next week."

"Oh yes," Draco reached across, to hold her hand, but she was too busy tearing an empty sugar packet to tiny pieces. Once it was shredded, she'd wave her hand and reform it, to tear it apart again. "Nervous?"

"No."

Draco made a sound from the back of his throat and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

"It's just, what does she want?"

"To have you over for tea." Draco sipped his black coffee, unperturbed. 

"Does she know?" Hermione stilled her hands, to let the scraps of paper lay untouched.

"About..?"

"Us." Hermione met his eye, her jaw tight and her lips downturned.

"I suspect so." Draco squinted at the ceiling of the cafe and watched as a pair of Forth years bustled to a nearby table.

"Oh."

"I haven't told her directly, but you were a guest at our home, and..." Draco searched for the words, his fingers curled around one another. "She's perceptive."

Hermione nodded, as she thought back to the smile Mrs. Malfoy had sent her outside the Hospital Wing the week before. She was able to read people, whether deeply or at a surface level. There was no telling how much she'd gleaned from those passing moments. His foot hooked around hers beneath the table, and he reached out to grab her hand.

"Better question, have you told Harry, or..."

Hermione went red to the tips of her ears, as anxiety pumped through her veins. She didn't meet Draco's eye but allowed him to hold her hand.

"Ah."

She forced herself to look up, to meet his eye, and he looked -- she didn't know how to phrase it. He didn't seem upset, or annoyed. He seemed defeated, but not outwardly. It was like he'd been told they'd run out of his favorite dessert, and he'd have to pick another. Just mildly inconvenienced, rather than hurt.

"Fair. We aren't dating, or _weren't_."

Hermione frowned at him, confused about what his point was.

"That is -- would you _want_ to do that?"

"What?"

"Date." Draco didn't hesitate, his gaze locked with hers.

Hermione disliked the word, as it felt kiddish. She searched for the giddy glee that should be in her, as if it were an exciting thing to announce. But they'd kissed and flirted around for a month now, and it seemed like something they should have worked out, long before all this. And it felt strange now, to slap a label on it, to make it an official boy-girl thing.

"Erm." Hermione paused, unsure how to proceed. "I do like you, Draco."

Draco let her hand go, and rested back into the booth. That same dejected expression appeared as if he knew what was coming.

"There's so much going on right now."

"Mhm," he swallowed hard, and crossed his arms, and she lost him. He had his gaze fixed out the far window, at the front of the store.

"I didn't say no -- "

"But you didn't say _yes, _either." He rolled his gaze back to her, his head tipped to one side.

"It's N.E.W.T.s, and the... That notebook, and things that were meant to be settled, that aren't settled."

"It's fine." Draco smiled at her, vague and soft. He didn't look angry, just distant, and she wished she could be so simple and uncomplicated.

She wished she could giggle and spring into his arms, excited to be dating him, excited by life. She continued to sip her tea, and he sipped his coffee, and the conversation muddled in her mind. She had expected their first date to be sweet and wonderful, full of laughter and fun. But instead, she felt the weight of Voldemort's return and the impending visit to the Malfoy mansion.

Even as they gathered their things, and began their return to Hogwarts, and they took the crawling path through the Forbidden Forest. It'd been a good ten minutes of silence, where he didn't seem angry or upset, just resigned. Like he'd been expecting this like she'd done exactly as he anticipated. She felt like she was a finite resource to him, and as he'd said, he was waiting for the moment he'd fucked up.

It wasn't a good basis for a relationship, to have one of them on the backfoot, forever apologetic.

"Can you let me think on it?" Hermione asked, quietly, her arms crossed.

"Of course." He reached out to pinch her cheek, in the cold afternoon air. "As long as you need."

Their flirtations had been open and light, and she'd not had any interest in anyone else. She assumed the same was true in return, and she trusted him. But it was more that 'dating' was a huge undertaking. It would impact their friendship, which was tenuous at best. She had her classes to focus on, and she couldn't invest all of herself into the relationship. Furthermore, if she had to leave Hogwarts, to assist Ron and Harry, she'd have to leave Draco behind. He had his own issues and had family obligations to deal with.

The jabs that Lucius had thrown her way kicked in, about how she only liked Draco for his properties and his affluence. This wasn't true, but any time she considered his tailored clothes or groomed features, she felt like a hypocrite. She liked him for his wit, his observations, for how strong he'd become and how much he'd learned... But she felt her brain rubber band back, to how Lucius had simplified her to a gold digger. She had nothing to offer, no wealth, no houses, no finishing school perfection. She was a grubby, poorly-dressed Muggleborn girl who couldn't dance, couldn't sing, and lacked all the social graces that seemed to be beaten into Pure-blooded girls from birth.

And she was thankful for that. She was proud of her background, and her experiences. She was happy to be a Muggleborn, with her strange Muggle clothes, and her need to wash dishes by hand. She enjoyed doing things the Muggle way, and loathed the idea of wasting away in a drawing room with her nose stuck in the air.

And the crux of it all, to date a Malfoy was to become a Malfoy.

She didn't know if she was Malfoy material.

He gave her, her Potions notes and didn't come back out for the rest of the evening.

* * *

> _**October 25th, 1998.** _

Hermione decided to bite the bullet, with regards to the Pensieve.

She had approached McGonagall with _one_ of the memories, clutched off to the side. She'd picked one of the unmarked memories, as she figured if McGonagall confiscated the memory, she'd still have the other six or so to look at.

And that was how she ended up in the Headmistress's Office, bent over a swirl of silver, completly unaware of what was to follow.

"Please be cautious, Ms. Granger," McGonagall said, in a softer voice than she'd ever heard. "There's no telling what those memories could entail."

And she fell, into the silver-white wastes of a memory that wasn't her own.

Her memories were vivid and bright, with clear details and even clearer information. This memory was fuzzy around the edges as if someone had been paying half as much attention as they should have been.

And it took her a second to realize she had, in fact, gone into a memory at all. This was a perfect replica of Dumbledore's office. She could see the man behind his desk, as he pet Fawkes the phoenix with a healthy, formed hand. In front of him was Sirius Black, far younger, with shorter hair and half as many wrinkles. He looked so handsome that Hermione had to look away, to focus on what was being said.

_"I don't care!"_

_"Ah, Sirius, I believe you do. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."_

_Sirius paced, back and forth, in a scuffed leather jacket and ribbed jeans with torn knees. He looked like he'd ridden a motorcycle here, which made sense. "LIly wouldn't want this."_

_"As brilliant as Lily Potter is," Dumbledore stilled his hand, as he looked across the office at Sirius. "Her compassion is a weakness."_

_"You expect -- " Sirius paused, his hands furling and unfurling by his sides, as he began to pace once more. "For some -- some kid, to say, sure Dumbledore, I'll fuckin' die for some woman and her baby."_

_"You'd simplify your godson and Lily to 'some woman and her baby'?"_

_"You know what I meant." Sirius growled back, his voice lower than Hermione had ever heard it._

_Dumbledore didn't respond, to the curse or the suggestion. He instead walked around the desk, to look out the window. He stood there, in silence, as a young girl entered the room._

_"Professor?" The girl stilled, as she saw Sirius, and even in the white-bright of the memory, she could see the girl blush. Her brilliant emerald eyes contrasted with the red of her hair, and of her robes. She looked to Dumbledore, then back to Sirius._

_"Kitty," Dumbledore smiled, and waved a hand at Sirius. "You recognize one another, don't you?"_

_"You used to throw dungbombs at me, and Remus, when were studying," Kitty squinted at Sirius. "That's not why I'm here, is it?"_

_Dumbledore laughed, while Sirius's Adam's apple bobbed as he searched for words._

_"You can't be serious." Sirius exhaled, as he walked over to Kitty. He bent at the knees, to look her in the eyes. His hands found her shoulders, and he stared her down. "Sweetheart, off you go, go back to your dorms, just, go, please -- "_

_"Sirius." Dumbledore interjected as he swept over to them. "She's already agreed."_

_Kitty shook off Sirius and frowned up at him. "I'm not a kid."_

_Dumbledore gestured for Kitty to approach the middle of the room, which she did with the same conviction Hermione had while on Prefect duties. She was sixteen, maybe, but she looked so young to Hermione. It was strange how drastic the difference was, between sixteen and ninteen._

_"Sirius, if you don't assist with the Amourdonne, I'll have to find someone else. As a godparent, you're the next best thing to a parent." He looked over his half-moon glasses. "If the ritual's a waste, then this girl is giving her life for nothing."_

_Kitty turned, to look up at Dumbledore, before she looked at Sirius. "I just want to stop him." She spoke, her voice small. "This is the only way."_

_And Sirius left._

The memory faded.

"Ms. Granger?"

Hermione gathered the memory back up, into the vial. "It was just Dumbledore, reading," she lied, slow and low. "Nothing really useful."

"A pity," McGonagall said, her hand extended to Hermione. "Though I'd like to see for myself, to make sure you didn't miss something."

Hermione though, on the spot, and duplicated the vial. The duplicate would lack any memories, she surmised, but it'd work for what she needed. She went to hand it to McGonagall, but thumbed the cork and dropped the vial. The vial hit the ground, and shattered, while the white liquid turned to mist.

"Hermione," McGongall gasped, stuck between rage and disappointment.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she lied, not sorry in the least.

"Absolutely careless behaviour!" Her hands on her temples. "There could have been something valuable in there that you overlooked."

"I don't think so," Hermione dismissed. "It really was just him, reading."

And she turned, and ran, and felt so, so awful for her lie. She rushed all the way back to her dorm, aware now that she'd not be able to use the Pensieve again, not unless she sneaked into the office in the night.

She had to find another Pensieve.


	34. if only you'd ask.

> _ **October 30th, 1998.** _

Hermione was seated in Draco's Hogsmeade home, with her purse full of her clothes. And, in true Gryffindor fashion, she was terrified of her weekend ahead.

Mrs. Malfoy had invited Hermione to a Hallow's Eve social event, which acted as a fundraiser for merchants affected by the Second Wizarding War. She knew this because of the brilliant stationery in her lap, which she read, again and again. She re-read it so many times, she could recite it, if asked.

She needed an excuse to avoid Mrs. Malfoy's eye.

"You haven't got a costume, darling?"

"I hadn't realized it would be a costumed event." She had hoped she could escape that element.

"It'll be a masquerade, I'm sure I can have Tripley get you a mask."

Hermione had asked if Tripley was okay, when Draco had first arrived back at school. She had been fine, though they found her passed out under a table with a bottle of whiskey.

"I feel bad, relying on her -- "

"Oh, don't," Mrs. Malfoy laughed, light and breezy. "She loves to make beautiful things for beautiful people."

Hermione gave the least beautiful smile she'd ever given in her life, her lips stretched across her teeth with her mouth closed.

"We'll be having Selwyn and Ayers in attendance," she smiled, as she gathered her skirt and stood. "Several other Order members, and Aurors."

Who could forget their last party, which denoted Voldemort's reappearance?

Hermione stood, against her better judgment. Draco offered his arm to her, and she cuddled close to him. She didn't even care if Mrs. Malfoy took issue with it. She seemed blank-faced and serene as ever, as if unaware of her son's affection for someone lesser. She felt the weight of her blood status, her wealth, her childhood, everything as if she were a charity case for Draco, rather than someone for him to...

She withdrew her head from his arm, and hated how she hated herself. She forced herself to stand, proud and confident, even as she felt like she shouldn't.

And she warmed when Draco reached out to rest his hand beneath her chin, to run his fingers against the underside, and to nudge her nose upward with the crook of his index finger.

"You'll find the guests to be more..." Mrs. Malfoy searched for a word, as she tended to do before she said something rude. "Diverse."

"Muggleborns, you mean?"

Mrs. Malfoy smiled and poked her finger in Hermione's direction. "All sorts, yes."

Draco hadn't pushed her on the topic of dating. She wasn't sure if he'd even really meant it, in the cafe. He had asked in such an indifferent, withdrawn way, as if he didn't care. And he'd not mentioned it again. Perhaps it was stupid of her to find the concept laughable in the current climate, given she had agreed to go to his parents' house with him over the weekend.

And that she'd gone as his date to a wedding weeks before that.

Mrs. Malfoy took Draco's arm, while Hermione kept his other in her grip. In a flash, familiar to her now, they were in a lavish countryside. She would guess they were still in England, though she had no hope of specific placement.

"Come, come," Mrs. Malfoy waved for them to follow, as they took the path towards the house. They'd Apparated within the grounds, close to the house. She surmised this was because it was _their_ house. She shot a nervous look over her shoulder, at a garden that spanned five times the size of the last mansion. There was a hedge maze, which stood at around shoulder height. It went higher, the further into the distance it went. She could see how it went on forever, given they were on a lofted, tiled area with picnic tables.

There was a pool, though it looked decorative rather than one that someone would swim in. There was a fountain, of course, with three tiers and an alabaster statue on top. A few albino peacocks shuffled around, huddled for warmth in the dim evening. There were stone benches all around, and black iron fences along every path. The dozens of paths that snaked off into the distance. She could see the boundary wall, but that was almost at the horizon. She could see a Qudditch pitch -- an actual Quidditch pitch -- just beyond that.

Draco didn't rush her, as he stood by her side and watched her.

"This is ridiculous."

"Oh, this is just our mini-mansion."

She turned to him, brown eyes blown wide.

Draco giggled, _fucking giggled_, and began towards the house.

"That was a joke," she said, in a low hiss. "Tell me that was a joke."

Draco shrugged, and said nothing.

It had to be a joke.

Ridiculous didn't begin to break down the palace he called home. It wasn't a place people lived, it couldn't be. There was a double staircase that lofted up to a second, third, _fourth_ floor. She could see all the way up, from this entrance hall, and everything was in shades of black or white. Silver embellishments gleamed, as did the emerald tapestries along the walls. Some had depictions of wizards in battle with men with swords, while others featured dragons and serpents in equal measure.

There were more columns than she could count, and beautiful vaulted ceilings, and so many paintings that she couldn't even look at, as there was too much, and too many things going on.

Somehow, Draco found his mother, who had taken a seat in a drawing-room. Not the same one that Hermione had been in, but a smaller, 'quainter' one.

If a room the size of their whole dorm was _quaint_.

"Now, dear, Tripley -- "

"Oh Hermoney, I missed'ed you!"

Hermione screamed, as little elf popped up right in her face. She dropped to the ground, as she'd Apparated right in front of her face.

Mrs. Malfoy exhaled, deeply. "Tripley will show you to your room."

Draco opened his mouth.

"Because a lady needs her space." Mrs. Malfoy slowly shifted her gaze to her son.

Draco closed his mouth.

"You'll be here until -- Sunday night. And, as peace of mind, I've had my husband alter our Apparation wards, so you may come and go as you please."

"Me, specifically?" Hermione asked, in a small voice.

"Yes dear. I've had it checked. We won't have a repeat of the wedding." Mrs. Malfoy looked at her, not even needing Legilimency to know where her concerns lied.

"Come, come, missus, is late, you need beauty sleep, not that you's ugly, no, no, no, I mean -- no, no no."

Hermione grimaced at Tripley, in her best attempt at a smile.

"Draco."

Hermione watched as Draco paused, as he'd turned to follow. He lingered, at his mother's request, and turned back to face her.

And then Hermione was at Tripley's behest.

* * *

Tripley had given her a small piece of parchment, with color preferences as well as materials, and a selection of animals. There was a second piece of parchment, with crudely drawn designs. She had come up with an idea for dresses and masks, and Hermione shed a few tears, at how sweet the thought was.

She failed to notice how scantily clad the designs would be, in practical wear.

She failed to account for Tripley's art skills, which were passable, but did not match to their realities.

She failed to keep a straight face as she stared down her dress, which was sleek and silver, with intricate lace over most of it. The details thickened around her breasts and abdomen and began to gradient out to transparent by the ends. She had picked a pretty, sleek design, which looked like a cat, only to find it was a lion. The details were more slimline and sweet, with silver veins and intricate gems around the edges. It fanned out and looped like flowering vines. It reminded her strongly of Noveau, and she wondered if Mrs. Malfoy had helped design the Eighth year dorms.

She hadn't tried it on, as she was too afraid of it. All of it.

Instead, she laid in her bed, which was much the same as the double king at the last mansion.

And her little mind boggled at how that was so matter-of-fact.

Oh, the last mansion.

You know, of the many that she'd been in.

Ridiculous.

She toyed with her ring and wondered if there was a Library.

And the ring lit up, and she managed to will it away.

She was a guest, after all, and she would wait. She would ask Draco, and she would visit when he was able to show her. She couldn't just go around in the middle of the night, looking through someone else's home.

* * *

> _ **October 31st, 1998.** _

Hermione hated crying.

It was messy and awkward, and she had no control over it. She rubbed her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater and allowed Draco to fold her into his chest.

"I warned you," he whispered against her temple, as he rocked her side to side.

How absolutely stupid, to cry over books.

He had found her that morning after she'd had breakfast. The family hadn't eaten together, and Draco had told her that was normal. It was more common for them to eat at their own leisure, and after the last dismal breakfast, they'd decided to keep Lucius and Hermione apart. So, with her hand in his, he'd led her off for a tour of the house.

Which he began with the Library, like an idiot.

She buried her face in his chest and cried, and cried, and couldn't stop.

There were rows upon rows, of books that were either rare, out of print, or both. There were common tomes, too, but there were books that were outlawed and books that were banned. There was such a wealth of knowledge, and she was so overwhelmed. She peeked past his arm and began crying anew, and she hated herself, but she hated herself a little less as he kissed her on the temple.

"Why're you crying?" He did his best to hide his laugh, and failed.

"There's so many -- " She breathed and stared, and she wished he'd warned her. "I don't have enough time."

"You have time." He let her go, and pushed her towards the stacks. "As long as you need."

Hermione worried on the spot, her hands clasped and unclasped. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and then she went into motion, all at once. Draco followed her, with the same amused smile on his face. He always watched her as she enjoyed the luxuries his family had, as if he could see it all fresh in her eyes. It was so standard for him, so much of it natural to him. He couldn't possibly realize what this would mean for her, how much she wanted to read every single one, a thousand times over.

"Okay," Hermione spun the ring, around and around. She thought about the book she wanted, any book on Amourdonnes, anything that could help her with the magic that had brought Voldemort back -- 

Nothing. Or, it seemed like nothing. She looked left and right, until she realized the thread went backward, out of the Library. She shook it, once, twice, and then let it drop. The thread broke, and she tried again. The same thing happened, and she left it for now. Perhaps it was so overwhelmed, by the way she'd looked at the Library at large.

Draco followed her, and held the books that she selected off the shelves. She grabbed _The Nightshade Guide to Necromancy_, and a book of wizarding fables. She picked up _Incipit Mori_, or _Death Begins_ as it would read in English.

She also grabbed a few general books, on Charms, and Transfiguration, and a book on the history of House Elves, and -- 

"Hermione," Draco whispered against her ear.

She'd not noticed how far she'd wound them into the Library. She had no idea how to get back out, as she'd followed the stacks without thought.

"I had planned to show you more, you know." He set the five or so books aside, as she weighed up two history books about goblins.

"Oh?" She smiled, her face still red from her tears. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -- "

He kissed her, one peck, then another. She obliged, surprised but receptive, and he walked her back, step by step. "I hate how much you apologize."

"I -- "

And he kissed her, to stop her apology for all her apologizing. It lasted longer this time, more desperate, the same kiss he'd wanted to give her last night, when his mother had dismissed her.

Her library euphoria had blinded her to how his gaze had gone from admiration to something darker, but much the same. His hands moved to grip her thighs, much as he'd done in the past. It took no effort to have her pinned between the extensive history of centaur oppression and Draco himself.

Even as he kissed her as if he could draw something out of her, as if he could get her to crack.

And she returned the favor, of something he'd done to her countless times. Her fingers entangled into his hair, as she yanked his head to the side, just a fraction. Her lips flared with his affection, as she gently nipped his ear. "Is this was you wanted to show me?"

Draco shook his head, and withdrew. Her fingers remained wound up in his locks, and he gave her the most sexed-up smile. She felt dirty just looking at it, like it was something she shouldn't have seen. But it was because of her, and at her...

He leaned in and exhaled. "I was going to show you the kitchens..."

"The kitchens?" She squinted. Had she missed something?

"We'd need to get some provisions, you see," he licked his lips apart, and adjusted his grip on her. She remained painfully aware of him, through his slacks, and he couldn't care less. "Given I intended to show you to my room, and we'd not be leaving there for lunch."

Hermione heard her jaw crack, from how hard she grit her teeth. "That's not much of a tour. Two rooms?"

Draco's gaze turned even darker, and she didn't realize how ice blue could look so shadowed. "Oh, is a bedroom too dull for you, Lionheart?"

"I didn't mean it like that." Hermione laughed, and she wished she hadn't.

"I mean, there's the Quidditch pitch, but that's open-air, I don't think you're -- " he searched for a word but moved on before he found one. "We could have stayed in the kitchens, makes sense, as a place to eat."

Hermione made an ugly sound, somewhere between an exhale and a laugh, and she blushed all over again. "Okay, okay, thank you, point made."

Draco grinned all the wider, as he shifted his hips so one hand could be free. It jumped to her throat, with no pressure and feather-light contact. He tapped a rhythm along her pulse point, and ghosted his fingers along her jawline. "What point? I've done nothing but state facts."

"Facts!" Hermione snorted.

"Please, enlighten me," Draco smirked, and she wanted to slap him but he'd probably enjoy that.

Hermione wriggled against him, but managed to find her feet. He allowed her to slide free, though one hand remained on her arse, which she allowed out of pure adrenaline. "Saying you want to -- _eat_, in a kitchen, that isn't -- you meant it a specific way." She squinted at him, as if that would imply what she couldn't say.

"Oh? Did you think I meant eating you out? That's your dirty mind at work," Draco scoffed, but he was full of shit. He knew what he'd said, how it'd come across. "All that said, I am _famished_." And he looked her over, and collected her books.

And she sprung forward at him before he had gotten too far. She kissed him, and stole his breath as he always did to her. Perhaps it was revenge, but in a dim place in the back of her mind, she knew this is what he wanted. She wasn't so stupid as to act without knowing, to do what he wanted blindly.

This was bad, and terrible, and so very much what she wanted.

But she didn't know how much she wanted, or -- 

This was stupid, the back and forth, the bubbling fear low in her stomach, as she flitted around the eventualities. She wanted him, wholly and badly, but it seemed too final.

The carnal act of wanting for the sake of want, of succumbing to his siren call. She wanted him, completely, but so had Emily, so had Pansy. She was afraid, of whether it was truly the same for him, as it was for her.

Then again, she'd almost slept with Ron out of a sense of obligation, because she supposed she liked him enough.

But she hadn't burned the same way she burned now, as his fingers dipped between the curve of her thighs, around her arse, and she just -- books. It was the books, she thought, as he slipped a hand beneath her sweater, to toy with her ribs, then the band of her bra.

Part of her worried, that he only liked her just enough. Enough to kiss her in the stacks, and enough to indulge her for what ego boosts ensued.

But the way his fingers played her skin like she was his favorite instrument pushed this away. Instead she sung, the way he wanted her to.

"Draco," she exhaled, her head tipped back as he licked at the line of her throat. He smiled into her, she could feel it, and his hand slowed.

"Hermione," he said back, in a mockery of her breathlessness, and she dug her nails into his neck. He hissed, and smiled deeper, and laughed to himself.

"You're such a prick," she laughed, in spite of it all.

"Yes, quite," a voice exhaled, unimpressed. "Draco, we need your assistance with some Ministry officials, whenever it is convenient for you, of course."

Hermione didn't need to look to know that was Lucius. Her skin bubbled with goosebumps before she'd even looked.

They detangled themselves, and Lucius watched with bored indifference. He had a cane, much like his old one, and Hermione privately wished he'd smack her so hard she'd forget this had happened. But instead, he smiled, so polite and so sweet that she could only liken him to a rotted candy apple. You could see the death beneath the sugar, and he waved for Draco to hurry along.

"I'll meet you, give me five minutes," he said, stern.

Lucius's eyebrows bounced so high that they seemed lost to the endless blonde. "Pardon?"

"Father." Draco didn't waver. "Five minutes. I'll join you in less, I promise."

Lucius rolled through a grimace and sneer, before he turned on his heel.

"I'm going to kill him," Draco mumbled into the mass of Hermione's hair, as he rested into her. They hugged, sweet and brief, and he kissed her on the lips.

"It shouldn't take long, should it?"

"We have to surrender magic for the evening." Draco said, his voice empty. "My family and I. During the party."

"But you could be attacked -- "

"Do you really think they care?" He asked, his voice wavering. "But it's what we have to do."

Hermione frowned up at him, and kissed him once more. "I'll stay here, then?"

"Please." Draco brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, at the redness that had spawned from tears and his touch. He kissed her, again and again, until he was gone, and she was alone.

And the Library looked so much more empty, without him to shadow her.

* * *

After three hours, Hermione had become worried. It was mid-afternoon, and there was still several hours before the party would begin. She had read through the lighter books, but her ability to read waned with each minute. 

"Missus," Tripley sung, as she Apparated before Hermione. "I was sent here to see's if you needed something's."

"Oh, Tripley..." Hermione frowned, and hugged her legs up to her chest. "I have been wondering... Does the Malfoy family have... A Pensieve, per chance?"

"Oh yes!"

Hermione tried to remain calm. "Oh, how lovely. Um... May I see it?"

"Did you want's the one that's you can just put into your palm, or the big scary one's that the Dark Wizard used'ed."

Hermione hadn't been prepared for an option, and she gawked at Tripley, open-mouthed. "Ah, I suppose, the palm-sized one?"

Tripley vanished and returned, with a small silver hand mirror. But rather than a straight mirror, it had a concave face. Her reflection was invisible, and what was reflected was warped.

"Is pretty, isn't it's?"

"Um, do you think..." Hermione frowned. "You could bring me my purse?"

Tripley snapped her fingers, and the purse appeared next to Hermione with a puff of green and silver smoke.

She quietly berated herself. She could have asked Draco about this weeks ago, and had her answers. But she had been too afraid to mention it, and in turn, she'd deprived herself of easy information. She exhaled through her teeth and looked down at Tripley. "Do you mind?"

"Mind what?" Tripley tipped her head, like a loyal puppy.

"I want to er, review, some class work, and..." She ran a hand through her hair. "Could I... Borrow this?"

Tripley beamed. "Young Mister said you could have whatever you want's, so if that's what you want's, that's fine with me's!"

Hermione panicked anew, at the possibilities. She shoved the Pensieve mirror into her purse, and felt the hot wash of guilt as she realized she'd manipulated this out of Tripley when she could have just asked Draco directly. She would tell him when she saw him. She'd tell him all about it, and everything would be fine.

This was difficult, though, as she had all these books around her, but no interest in them. She spun her ring around her finger and wondered once more about the Amourdonne. Perhaps now that she'd calmed down from her hysterical tears, she'd be able to find a book.

And the thread formed, out the Library doors.

"Tripley," Hermione said, sweetly. "May we go for a walk? I've been in here so long, you understand..."

"If that's what missus's wants's!" Tripley beamed, and waved for Hermione to stand. She neated her stack of books, and left a small parchment note that she and Tripley had gone for a walk.

Tripley spoke the whole way, about the paintings and the decorations. She spat out the names of some lesser elves, in her eyes, who had done wrong, or decorated poorly, but Hermione couldn't pay attention. She needed to follow this thread, to wherever it led.

They looped up to the third floor, to an office that had deep black oak furniture and dark emerald curtains. There were bookshelves along all the walls, and even more books. She could see deep silver candle fixtures, and a brilliant marble fireplace.

"Oh..." Tripley said, softly. "This is the Sir's office's..."

"I just want to see." Hermione smiled, and waved at Tripley. "You can stay out here, if you like."

Tripley waddled on the spot, and rushed in after Hermione at the last second. The little elf worried on the spot, staring at the door, and at Hermione in rotation.

Hermione bent down low, as the thread pointed down to the desk.

She approached, her wand held aloft. The ring led her downwards, to the botton left drawer. Shd tested it with the toe of her shoe, but it was locked. She crouched beside it, anticipation thick in her mind.

She unlocked it and opened it with wandless magic, one after the other. Her excitement fizzled when she found nothing but blank parchments. The thread bore down deeper, beneath the papers. She picked them all out, and the thread went straight through.

"_Exitus Equitum Solis_."

A few puffs of green and purple arose, and Tripley made a nervous sound.

Hermione flipped the piece of wood and fought down the urge to throw up.

In her limited experience in the Restricted Section of the Library, she had found books bound in human flesh. It had a distinct pattern to it and felt like the most debased way to glorify death. She gathered the book up, as well as another, slimmer black covered book. This one had a lock on it, with silver details.

She threw them into her purse, and resumed all the wards. She covered over the drawers and pushed back the parchments. She got halfway around the desk before she saw Lucius, in the doorway, and her stomach dropped.

"Why am I not surprised."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys WANT to have saucy stuff written in detail, or fade to black. Not all the time, and only when important/pivotal for character moments, but... 👀 I'll likely put warnings, but this story is marked Mature, so. 👀


	35. beneath the mask.

> _ **October 31st, 1998.** _

Oh, this was such a bad idea.

"Do I want to ask why you're sneaking around in places you aren't welcome?"

"I wasn't sneaking. I was simply looking around." Hermione pushed her hair behind her shoulder, as an excuse to do anything. Lucius had a weight in his gaze that reminded her of Snape, but more in the general sense of abject disgust and anger, rather than Legelimency.

Lucius rolled his gaze around, and nudged Tripley with his boot. The elf jumped, and fell, though she scrambled back to her feet. He stepped after her, kicking at her. "What was she doing in here?"

"She was just looking's," Tripley said through grit teeth, her face formed into a smile. 

He didn't even get a chance to raise his cane, as Hermione hexed it out of his hand.

"No," Hermione hissed. "Don't you _dare_ hurt her for what I did."

"And what did you do, Ms. Granger?" Lucius tipped his head back, to smile at her with that same rotten candy smile.

"Nothing, unless curiosity is a crime." She began for the door, though he stepped in front of her, whichever way she went. 

"I wanted to say -- "

"Yes, yes, I know you hate me."

"No," Lucius didn't correct her, not as she understood. Rather, he caught her arm with what actual strength he had. While their magic was gone, all he had was Muggle things, which opened the door to physical touch. She endured it, pride in her eyes as she stared him down.

"What then?" She asked, as she watched Tripley worry by the door. She looked beside herself, but cried in secret rather than aloud.

"I wanted to say I was sorry, for how the wedding went." He smiled again, and yanked her closer. "You deserved more than you received."

On words alone, this might sound nice. But she knew what he meant, whether he had a part or not. She stomped on his foot, which made him jump, enough for her to slip out of his grasp. She wished he had magic, so she wouldn't feel like she'd taken advantage of him if she were to cast a hex. But she didn't, and instead settled for stomping on his foot.

Hermione rushed towards the door, and gathered Tripley up before the house-elf could say otherwise.

"Bring her back here," Lucius shouted after Hermione.

"I don't think I will!" Hermione sung, as she hip-checked a vase. It shattered behind her, and slowed Lucius's pursuit.

They had enough vases.

Tripley was rocking in her arms, as she mumbled about how her Master would be so mad, but Young Mister said she had to make Hermione happy. She cradled the house-elf as she walked the halls, up until she realized she was lost. She followed the stairs, up and down, and remembered the Library was on the ground floor, but which way.

"Tripley?" She whispered to the little green-tinged elf. Her ears were pierced with ornate silver jewelry, and she hoped that was her choice.

Tripley smiled up at her, watery eyes too wide.

"Where's the Library, dear?"

And her arm shot out, like a compass. Even as they turned corners, she continued to point in exactly the correct direction. She had her face buried in Hermione's chest now, so it would be impressive if it wasn't so sad.

They found Draco with the note, in a mixture of anxious and bored.

"Sorry," Hermione exhaled, and poured Tripley onto the couch. The went limp, like a doll, and laid with her tears rolling down her face. Draco looked at her with his best approximation of concern.

"Father?"

Hermione hadn't even gotten a chance to open her mouth, and he knew.

There was no sense in lying, she decided. If Lucius was going to go after her, over the books, then she'd need Draco on her side. She spoke, in swift, soft tones, about the memories she'd found alongside Dumbledore's notebook, and the handmirror Pensieve and the book of human flesh. She also mentioned the smaller, simpler black book, with the keyhole, but he stared at her hand the whole time.

"How did you know?" He asked, as he took her hand. "About the books?"

"My ring," she lifted her hand, to show him the Ravenclaw ring in silver and sapphires. "I just think of a book I want, and I find it."

Draco frowned, but he thumbed her hand all the same. "Pity it's nothing useful. I mean -- "

"It is useful!"

"To you, yes," Draco smiled. "But how often are people trying to find a book?"

Hermione gestured at herself, as if that explained her whole existence at once. "I used it to find you, in The Library, and to find the notebook from Dumbledore. And now, I have these two weird other books." She chewed at her thumb, as she looked at the Library door. "If you family has no magic until tomorrow, I'll be able to read these and even make copies. He won't be able to get through his own enchantments, to see if the books are there."

"You're lucky," he exhaled, as he massaged his face.

"No, I'm clever," she smirked, and she felt proud.

"M-Missus's saved me, from's him," Tripley mumbled under her breath.

Draco shot Tripley a look. "Did he try to beat her?"

Tripley's wide bottom lip spread even wider, as she pouted. "Master Sir was very angry's, as he should's be, but I was just doing what the Young Mister's said, because she wanted books's and Young Mister said, whatever she wants's."

Hermione reached out to pat Tripley's shoulder, and she burrowed into Hermione's side like a scorned toddler. "Do you beat your house-elves."

"I don't," Draco snapped back, with a furrowed brow. "Neither does mother."

Hermione rolled her eyes, as she finished the thought for him. If he wasn't Draco's father, she'd go beat him senseless with her bare fists, wands be damned.

"And he's grabbed'ed the Missus's, but she's a guests, and I -- we don't do that's, no we don't, not anymore, that's in the past, we don't hurt guests's, I like guests's." Tripley sobbed, and rocked, and sobbed some more.

Hermione _felt_ Draco's gaze, as he stopped his polite attention on Tripley. 

"Pardon?" He said with a smile, as his teeth flashed in the dim light of The Library.

Hermione didn't look up at him, and kept her attention on the house-elf instead. "It's getting late... Should we go get ready for the Hallow's Eve event..?"

Tripley stopped mid-sob, her mouth wide and her eyes scrunched. Her gaze slid up to Hermione, and her face fell into a giant smile.

"Missus's wants to get's dressed, Young Mister!" Tripley waved, and then positioned her fingers to snap them.

"No, wait a second."

Before Hermione could say or do anything, she was in her bedroom, with her dress and mask in front of her. The image of Draco standing up, to say something, was lost on her. She looked around the bedroom, to make sure it was hers -- as much as a guest bedroom could _be _hers, after all.

Tripley bounced into action, as if she'd not been in tears seconds ago. She dressed Hermione as she had last time, though it wasn't as rushed or heavy. Instead, the fabric seemed to glide over to her, to rest at her collarbone and melt downwards. It was like a record player at half speed instead of double, and she could appreciate the art of dressing with magic.

"This's a dress for you's, so it's easier, you see," Tripley explained, with a smile. "Like a wand picks's a wizard, a dress picks's the witch."

Hermione couldn't help but hold her arms aloft, and she felt like the vision of Cinderella as the dress wove its way across her. It had sheer sleeves that deepened to a bright silver across her chest. The bodice was tight yet plain, and went from silver to seemingly nothing at the bottom. She couldn't work out if it was real spiderwebs or fake, as it had the same look as dozens of webs weaved together.

Draco burst into the room, out of breath.

"What -- did he -- do -- "

Tripley waved a hand without looking, and he slid out of the room and the doors slammed shut.

"Sweet boy, he is, but has no sense of space for ladies's."

Hermione chuckled, lowly, and waited for the dress to finish weaving. As it came to its natural end, she felt it mixed the creep of Halloween with something more elegant, and was far prettier than any last-minute attempt at a Halloween costume. She'd have gone as a Muggle dentist, covered in blood and in scrubs. That would have been funny, but neither Mrs. Malfoy or Tripley seemed interested in the _fun_ Halloween ideas.

The door creaked open, and Draco marched in.

"Oh, she looks exactly the same as when I came in the first time," he scoffed. "Beautiful, but -- "

"It wasn't anything that bad," Hermione lied, like you do.

"Hermione."

"He just said that he was sorry, though I've never heard anyone less sorry in their life." Hermione adjusted a silver cuff that rested at the end of the sleeves. 

"Sorry for what?" Draco paced, his arms crossed as he looked at the room. His eyes lingered on the bed, where her pajamas were thrown about.

"About how I didn't get what I should have at the last event."

And Draco left.

And Hermione wished she'd lied.

* * *

Hermione stood in a semi-circle, with Harry, Ginny, and Ron. There was another hour before most guests arrived, though the Aurors had made their way through the mansion at large. They checked high and low, and added their own wards and Caterwauling Charms, so anyone who arrived uninvited would be highlighted.

There was to be no gifts allowed, and no wards were to be taken past the entrance. People could still use wandless magic, of course, but wandless magic was inherently more limited than magic with a focus.

And Hermione ran through all of this in her mind, to avoid the reality that she was two-for-two on beautiful Malfoy events.

"You sure you're not dating him?" Ron exhaled, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Don't badger her about him the whole night," Ginny swatted Ron, which flashed her gaudy leopard print wristband.

She had a mix between leopard print dress made to look more formal, and Harry had a pair of fake fangs. A little blood was splotched on his cheek, which ran from his mouth, and he had worried over whether actual vampires would think it was rude.

"Even if they are dating," Harry cut in, with a raise of her brow at Hermione. "He's not the same git we went to school with."

"Tch, sure," Ron dismissed, his arms crossed which highlighted the deep cut of his shirt. He was dressed like a pirate, which looked much the same as many other guests who trickled into the party. Some had masks, while others were in minimal black robes, sleek and prim. They all had masks, to varying degrees, some ornate and massive, while others were just as simple as the black robes. 

One woman who walked past had an enchanted butterfly mask which Hermione and Ginny fawned over. It would flap it's wings and show off her face, which was an ornate white makeup look, elegant and overdrawn. Hermione would wager that woman was at least part Veela, as she glided around the room.

"Just think she deserves better," Ron muttered to his feet.

"Don't spend all night being a sore loser," Ginny tapped her mask with her finger as she tried to dress up the look of it. Gold ribbons exploded out of her fingertip like a party popper and fell to the floor. She shuffled them beneath her dress, to hide her failing.

Hermione worried her mask between her fingers, as it was a two-part piece. One part acted like a net over her hair, with interlocked vines and lace. The other half would click into place, and sit on the bridge of her nose, should she deign to put it on. It felt so silly and ornate, to wear while talking with others. But everyone else had their masks on.

"Also, was it just me, or did anyone else think Malfoy was full of shit when he acted all rich?" Ginny tried to shoot ribbons again, but they failed as spectacularly as before.

"Ginny," Hermione hissed.

"Oh no, I did too, until we came here," Harry looked around with the same grief that Hermione and Ron had when they looked too closely at the house in the night. The mirth and smell of savoury treats set it apart from how it'd look earlier in the year.

The place was lit up, with silver and white banners and lanterns above. They were enchanted to hover, and glowed bright white. She could see the table of refreshments, and the familiar cut of Draco's jawline beneath his mask.

Of course he was a dragon. 

The mask looked like the skull of a dragon, more than a live one. It was all angles and bone, overgrown and reclaimed by nature. There was moss around the hinges, which looked soft in contrast to the bone. It had great horns, which didn't go too high or wide. But the white suit to match threw her off, which may have been white it'd taken her so long to spot him.

She hadn't had a chance to read the books she'd stolen from Lucius yet, or use the Pensieve, and both thoughts panicked her. She needed to see what was in those memories. Perhaps she could sneak away from the party, if she could remember her way to the guest room.

"Hermione," a voice sang amidst the crowd. A little redhead with bright green eyes skipped over, and Hermione then realized she'd never seen Professor Ayers in anything that wasn't boxy or loose. She bounced over, dressed in black silk. The dress was more Muggle than magical and had a long cat tail that appeared at her tailbone. She had a little black nose tip and some enchanted whiskers, which hovered like glitter by her nose.

And, just -- Hermione had to fight her gaze away from her chest, which was pushed into sharp contrast with her usual baggy jumpers. Hermione was petite and flat, very _unwomanly_ she felt, while Ayers dripped with curves and soft shapes.

"Professor," she said, dumbfounded like she'd seen a dog reading a newspaper.

It was then Hermione realized a man stood behind her, in a mask that covered nearly all of his face. He was trim and tall, with long black hair tied back, and a handsome suit. Where Ayers had come as a cat, they had come as a hellhound. The mask was split into three heads, like Cerberus, though it wrapped around their face. Their mouth remained exposed, in a macabre contrast.

They lifted the edge and winked at the group.

"Sirius -- "

"Ron, shut up, shh," Ginny flapped her hands at him.

The quartet stared at the matched pair, and Hermione had more questions than she liked about them. She couldn't see the girl who had snapped at Sirius, or the man who had called Kitty a child.

Did they even know?

"He's my er, what would you call it?" Ayers turned, to crook a finger against her chin.

"Seeing eye dog?"

Ayers snorted, as she waved at her face. "I can see, shapes, colours, but I need my glasses, but contacts are so difficult, and I wanted to wear a mask, but wearing a mask with glasses is just a mess, and -- "

"Is Selwyn here?"

"Oh," Ayers looked around, and she spun on the spot, which knocked Ginny with her tail. "Somewhere, yes."

"You're not still gonna marry him, are you?" Harry asked, in a low voice.

Ayers paused her pirouettes, and smiled at the group. "There's bigger concerns, for all of you."

"If I see one single Dark Arts thing go down," Sirius began, as he snatched five hors d'oeuvres off a passing tray. "I will really go back to Azkaban, I swear."

"No, you won't," Ayers turned, her hands bunched in front of her and her expression petulant.

Sirius wiggled a tiny cracker with cheese on it at her, and she blushed. When she didn't take it, he ate it himself, and smiled at the group.

"Um, Ayers," Hermione said, softly. She wished she hadn't, as the woman crushed closer to her, her head dipped low. It put her in suffocating proximity to her plush chest.

"What is it?"

"You don't remember, agreeing to... To do what Dumbledore asked?"

Ayers looked at Hermione, confusion in her narrowed eyes. "No, I think I'd remember such a thing."

"I think you might have been Obliviated. Sirius, too."

Ayers stepped back, to look up at Sirius who had cheeks full of the tiny platter food. Ron had joined him, as they argued about the merits of the salami versus the olives.

"We'll talk later, okay?" She squeezed Hermione's arm, which she only now realized had Lucius's grip imprinted onto it. She rubbed it, as if to hide it, but all she could do was glamour charm it. It wasn't so dark as to drawn attention, but it would darken in time.

Ayers and Sirius split off, which left Hermione with the question of where Selwyn was.

"She's hot, right?" Ron watched them go, his arms crossed. "In that awkward, bookish kinda way."

"I wouldn't call that _bookish_, but uh, yeah," Ginny agreed, confused. "Except the red hair makes me feel like I shouldn't be able to say that."

"You don't own red hair," Harry laughed, his eyebrow raised at him.

"Maybe she's secretly your Amourdonne too, Ron," Hermione laughed, as she watched Sirius catch Ayers's tail whenever it was about to slap someone.

The party pressed on, as Mrs. Malfoy roamed the groups. Hermione couldn't understand what people did at this evenings, except for talk about all the things they'd done, or the things they intended to do. All she wanted to do was to go upstairs and look through the books. She had tonight to read them before she'd have to sneak them back to Lucius's office. The thoughts of the book circled her, round and round, even as she listened to Harry and Ron speak with their Auror friends, or as political officials swept by to shake Harry's hand.

She had to wonder if Harry was here as an Auror, or as a featured guest.

"Ms. Granger," an older man said, with salt-and-pepper hair and a massive chin. "I don't understand why you'd go back to school rather than join the Ministry. There's so many positions available to you, had you only asked."

"Yes, well, I wanted to earn my position."

He laughed, like she'd missed his point.

"I think it's admirable," another man said, portly and all curves. "To value one's education, even when one doesn't have to."

"You were a Ravenclaw, Beau, of course you'd say that."

"Oh, well, yes, well, that may be so -- " the little portly man named Beau huffed. "But no one is above learning! You're never too old to learn."

Hermione felt a hand against her elbow, as Draco slid into view. He smiled beneath his bone dragon mask, ice blue eyes clear beneath the white and green. 

"Another little student from Hogwarts," the salt-and-pepper man said, with a laugh so intentionally handsome it sounded pre-recorded.

Hermione _felt_ Draco's eyebrow arch, as he endured the man's laughter. "And another little Ministry man. Didn't you celebrate you, what was it, twelfth anniversary in The Department of Magical Games and Sports... The Bludger Regulation department. Twelve years -- you must really love Bludgers, hm?"

The salt-and-pepper man was now red around the edges, as he fumed beneath his mustache and looked for anything else in the room to entertain him.

Draco stepped away, with Hermione in willing tow, as he made a path towards his mother. She was with several other beautiful, lithe women, all in a gradient of pinks to white. If they were dressed as anything specific, Hermione couldn't tell. They just looked like flowers, enjoying the evening air.

"Hermione's feeling unwell."

"Oh, that's a shame," Mrs. Malfoy pouted. "Is there nothing we can do for her?"

"No, sadly," Draco sighed. "I'll see her to her room."

Hermione was thankful for the mask, as she looked up at Draco. She watched Ginny and Harry dance, and Ron was with a girl with brown hair, she saw Ayers and Sirius with a man who looked much like Lucius, beneath his snake mask. But then she remembered how Selwyn looked like a midpoint between Lucius and Draco, and she couldn't be sure she'd even pinpointed either. It was a confusing mix, and she hated the masks.

And then she was in the hallway, confused beyond words, as she dug her heels in to stop Draco's pace.

"Excuse me," she whispered as if they weren't alone in this hallway.

And then her mask popped off, as he pulled her into a kiss.

She shoved at his chest, and he relented. His own mask had fallen, but he'd caught it in his free hand. "We're supposed to be helping merchants gain funding, and..."

"You were milling around with Ministry dregs from old houses," Draco asked, low and curious. He walked her back against a bare space of wall, and she wished he hadn't. "You can go back, if you want."

"We can't just sneak out, to... To do..." Hermione stumbled around the words, even as he raised a brow at her.

"You don't want to read those books?"

Hermione felt her heartbeat in her ears.

"Dear, dear, what were _you_ thinking this was all about?"

Ayers appeared, along with Sirius.

He smirked down at her and waved them along. "We can't be gone long, but I thought it'd be good, to have Ayers, given her skill with deciphering languages, and Sirius -- "

Hermione yanked him down into a kiss, deep and hungry, which he'd not expected given how long it took him to catch on. He did though, and only stopped when Ayers cleared her throat a few paces away. She was bright red beneath her mask, as always, her hair a sheet of auburn that sprung from beneath.

"Sorry, were we interrupting you?" Sirius asked, baleful.

Hermione and Drago sped along, with Sirius and Ayers. She would have summoned Ron and Harry, but then they'd have taken too many people from the party. If anything was to go wrong, they needed as many people as possible.

It wasn't too far away, and Hermione was thankful. Ayers and Sirius seemed unaffected by the grandeur of the house, and Hermione realized that Sirius could have been here, before. The Malfoys and the Blacks were an intertwined family, and the house at Grimmauld place was merely one of their houses, centered in London. He could have had a mansion, somewhere.

Ayers seemed anxious, but not about the room.

And now they had nothing but time, and six memories to swim through.

Ayers picked up the books that Hermione had pulled from her purse, and sat at a writing desk in the corner of the room. Sirius hovered over her, his head top of hers, his arms draped around her as she read. Even as a human, he kept the dog-like need to be all over whomever they deigned as _theirs, _and Hermione needn't ask. 

Just as they'd not asked her about Draco.

"Sirius and I will be by the door, you two just..." Draco leaned in, to peck Hermione. "Be safe."

"Oh, I will," Sirius exhaled, and Ayers elbowed him. 

"Let them have their moment, Pup."

Sirius mocked back her words to him, and pecked her on the top of her head. Drao and Sirius detangled themselves from their respective dates and moved to stand by the door.

And Hermione pulled out the case, with worn green velvet and seven vials.


	36. october 17th, 1981.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Very Pensieve Heavy, but I hope it gives some context and clarity.

Ayers had settled into the books, though she'd begun with the human flesh bound one, rather than the slim black one. It had a lock on it, and Hermione would offer to help...

But the case of memories glinted in the light, and she trusted Ayers to be able to open it on her own.

She had no idea how to approach this, whether to go by chronology as they were now, or from start to finish based on the labels. She opted for the latter, as she rearranged the memories into sequential order. The memory she'd taken with her to McGonagall's office had been the only one without a label, as it'd yellowed and peeled off. It had been some time in nineteen eighty-one, though, and given that Ayers was there... It'd be September or October. It had to be before Harry's mother had died.

She took a deep breath as she poured the first memory, marked _October 22nd, 1970_.

_She landed in a street, with deep night blanketed over the street. She saw a man, with clean robes and straight hair. His beard was most noticeable, and she recognized Dumbledore without issue. Whether the memory willed her forward, or she followed, she couldn't say. But she kept pace with him, like a ghost by his side. He rounded a corner, up to a small Muggle home, where a woman with bright green eyes and red hair opened the door. She looked so much like Ayers and stood beside a man with strawberry blonde hair. They smiled and spoke, but the words were simple._

_A hello, a welcome, how they all were._

_The house was lavish, by Hermione's standards. It was nothing compared to the Malfoy mansions, but it was huge and bright, with high ceilings._

_"The Fidelius charm is functioning?"_

_Mrs. Ayers nodded, though her head perked when she heard the cries of a young girl._

_Hermione watched her rush off, to collect a tiny girl in a mint green pajamas. It had to be Ayers._

_Dumbledore wriggled his finger beneath her chin. "Happy birthday, my dear Bitty Kitty."_

_She stopped crying, though watched him with wide, shy eyes. He was a well-dressed wizard, with twinkling eyes and a crooked nose. Hermione could remember how deeply she'd trusted him, once upon a time. It made sense the little girl smiled at him, blind to what was about to happen._

_"It's just a matter of time, isn't it." Mr. Ayers adjusted his sleeve, and Hermione saw the flash of a Dark Mark, as he eased his sleeve down. He had a thick American accent, rather than British._

_"It is." Dumbledore straightened his posture, his hands folded in front of him._

_The couple shared a long look. _

_"There has to be something we can do..." Mrs. Ayers implored Dumbledore, as she watched him cradle the little girl. "Please, Albus."_

_"I've told you what I believe to be the best course of action." He looked at Mr. Ayers, stern and dark. "You can't protect them while you're by their side. Your presence alone is a target, not to mention the perceived blood betrayal." He looked at Kitty, crueler than Hermione liked. But it wasn't the little girl's fault, she was a child._

_"Albus, you can't," Mrs. Ayers' voice cracked, low and desperate._

_"I can take you, Arnold, wipe your memory, and any ties you have to this home. You can go back to him, and face your punishment. Your wife and daughter may yet survive. Or, you hide here, and have all three of you as a target."_

_The little girl began to cry again, about how she didn't want her daddy to go. Mr. Ayers kissed his wife, and then his daughter on the forehead. The family bunched together, all in tears. He promised he'd be back for them, that he'd escape, that they had nothing to worry about._

_Mrs. Ayers cried alongside her daughter, and Hermione didn't need to see the rest, to know that he'd given himself up in hopes of saving his wife and child._

Hermione emerged, tears in her eyes. She stared at Ayers' back, as she poured over the books.

"Ayers," Hermione said, with a watery voice. "What was your father like?"

"Oh, I never met him," she answered, plainly. "He ran away when I was a baby. My mum said he was an asshole, though, she died during the First Wizarding War," she slowed, and turned, her gaze fixed to Hermione. "Why?"

"You may want to review these when I'm done," Hermione waved a hand, and Ayers shot her a confused look.

Hermione collected the memory and poured the second memory into the Pensieve, which was marked _November 12th, 1972_.

_This memory was eerily identical, as Dumbledore touched base with a couple in hiding. This was at the peak of the war, where Death Eaters were at their highest power. She watched him collect the baby girl, the same strange air of his power being leveraged over weaker wizards and witches._

_He'd provided them clemency, though the couple were both sandy blondes with an array of Hufflepuff decor pieces. The mother looked much like Susan Bones, though older, and she saw the genetic lineage spread forward, into the future that she knew._

_The baby wasn't their only child in this household, either, as a young boy and girl ran around in the background of the memory. The girl in her arms, or the bundled baby -- either could be Aceline._

As she reemerged, she picked the link with ease. Both the girls were trained from a young age to respect Dumbledore, that he'd helped their parents. They hadn't been said in these memories, but their parents both acted with a level of reverence. The Abbots seemed unaffected, as compared to Kitty's parents.

She sat on the guestroom bed, unsure she wanted to break into the rest of vials.

She picked up the third one, which was marked as _September 2nd, 1981_.

As the memory settled into the Pensieve, she watched Ayers, who was humming to herself as she worked.

In truth, this should be the other way around. These were her memories after all, or memories she should have held.

_The room shimmered, and she was in Dumbledore's office. He was leaned against his desk, his hands folded in front of him. Ayers and Amelia Bones were seated, giggling with sweets, and about their holidays._

_"Girls," he said, warmly, as he gestured to them. "How were your holidays?"_

_"Um, pretty good," Amelia made a face, as if she was trying to hide something. Ayers wiggled her brows, and Amelia broke into giggles._

_"Ah, youth," Dumbledore smiled, as any number of things could have laid beneath their smiles. Summer romances, letters from a sweetheart, sweets, new robes, more magic than mischief... Hermione remembered those times, and she felt infinitely older than them, as she stood with her nineteen years like a weighted vest._

_"Now, girls, I have a very important question to ask of you both."_

_"Of course, Dumbledore," Ayers bit her bottom lip, and Hermione now realized how plump Ayers had been as a girl. She was still rather round, but she'd grown into the shapes, however, but the sight of her as a young little ball of potential made her smile._

_"How would you feel, to know you both held the future of the wizarding world in you?"_

_The girls exchanged a strange look, but they smiled blindly. "You mean like, we are the future, all that tripe?" Amelia smirked, and Ayers nudged her._

_Dumbledore smiled and waved an arm. Snape appeared from the shadows, his arms crossed in front of him. He looked so young, barely older than the girls. It was similar to the weirdness that came with seeing Wood as a teacher, but in reverse._

_"Now, girls," Dumbledore spoke, with weight and caution. "I know you've both met Severus, given he was in Seventh year not long ago."_

_Ayers wouldn't look at him, her gaze fixed to the floor. Inversely, Snape didn't look at Amelia once. Hermione felt her skin crawl, as he glared down Ayers, as he did with Harry. It felt so much more sinister, given all she knew now._

_"Severus and I have reason to believe something very unfortunate is on the horizon, for a pair of students you're both familiar with."_

_Amelia and Ayers looked distraught, and all their joy from their holidays melted away. Hermione felt her fists shake by her side, as she watched Dumbledore's mind tick away beneath his greying hair._

_"I've selected you both because of your integrity, your strength, your maturity -- "_

"Lies!" Hermione shouted as she stormed towards Dumbledore.

_"And your purity of character." He smiled, unaffected by Hermione's scream. This was a memory, she had no effect on it, but she couldn't help it. She stared the man down in his memory._

_"This is a matter of life and death," Snape interjected, as he approached the girls. He looked down at them, passingly at Amelia, and intensely at Ayers. Ayers hadn't looked up, her gaze fixed on her shoes, as she shook on the spot._

_Snape reached out, to tip her head, roughly, and Hermione clawed out at Snape's apparition. He stared her down, with none of the hesitations that a teacher should have when it came to touching a student. "Are you taking this seriously, Ayers?"_

_"Don't touch her!" Amelia snapped, as she swatted away Snape's hand. She jumped up, to get between Snape and Ayers, her teeth grit and her chest puffed out. He rolled his eyes and turned back to Dumbledore._

_"These two are useless." He walked away, to leave the office._

_"What do we have to do, Professor?" Ayers had stood, her hands shaking by her sides. She gently interlocked her arm with Amelia's, and rested her cheek against her friend's shoulder._

_"Have either of you heard of an Amourdonne..?"_

And the room faded.

Hermione was faced with Ayers, who had pivoted in her chair to gawk at Hermione.

"You were shouting," she said, soft and unsure. "Are you alright?"

Hermione rushed over, to hug Ayers, unable to speak. She held the older woman close to her chest, in a way she'd not been able to do for the young girl cornered in Dumbledore's office. Ayers accepted the hug, no matter how confused she was by it.

"Hey, you don't have to go through them, if they're that awful," Ayers said, softly, and spun Hermione to rest on her knee. She allowed the gesture and felt much like she'd been seated on her mother's lap, as she cried about Ron.

"You were so young, you had no idea," Hermione whispered, tears down her cheeks.

Ayers hugged her again, and she took her time before she went for the fourth memory. She extracted herself, unsure she'd be able to look at Ayers the same after all this.

She had reviewed the... Sixth memory? Which left three more, two in October, then the undated one, that said 'if he needs to know'.

The fourth memory was listed as September_ 23rd, 1981._

_It was late in the evening, in Dumbledore's office. There were no girls here, not that she could see. It was Snape and Dumbledore, alone, in the quiet of the evening._

_Dumbledore had the book she'd found in his private office, behind his portrait. She could tell by the cover, and the Ancient Greek. She'd learned how to interpret it, baseline, and she peeked past his hand._

_A pretty young blonde appeared, as did Sirius. They were laughing about something, a joke half-told as Sirius stumbled in._

_Snape and Sirius met eyes, and Sirius had his wand out in seconds._

_"That won't be necessary, Sirius."_

_"Uh, I think it fucking will," Sirius had stepped in front of the blonde. She wasn't Mrs. Bones, but if Sirius was Harry's godparent, then Hermione extrapolated -- perhaps this girl was Neville's godmother?_

_"Odette -- how's Edgar?" Dumbledore asked, as if Sirius and Snape weren't in a stand-off._

_"Oh, he's good, he has our little ones keeping him busy, not to mention N -- um, just all the kids, at the moment," she smiled, sweetly._

_"I promise you both," he gestured to Snape. "You can speak freely."_

_"I'm sorry, I just don't..." Odette fussed with her fingers, a pout on her pretty lips. "Isn't he..?"_

_"He's here as a witness." Dumbledore waved a hand, and Snape vanished into the same sitting room that Neville had appeared from._

_"Oh great, he's off to get the big guns," Sirius threw his hands into the air. "You said this was about Harry, and..." He looked to Odette, who was pink in the cheeks._

_"It's about Neville and Harry, yes." He adjusted his hands, and interlocked his fingers. "We've found a way to secure their well-being, even if their parents are affected."_

_"You mean killed." Sirius ran his hands through his hair, and he threw his hands into the air. "No. No, I'm not doing this, not around fucking Snape of all people, are you -- " he laughed, hot and angry, and turned to leave._

_"At least meet the girls, willing to lay down their lives."_

_Sirius hissed through his teeth, as he paused. Amelia and Ayers appeared, meek and unsure. They all lit up, as there was only five years between the kids and the adults in the room. They'd been in school together._

_Sirius left without another word._

_"Will this work, Dumbledore?" Odette asked, softly._

_"I promise I'll take care of him," Amelia stepped forward, to offer her hand. "As if he was my own."_

_Snape approached the pair, and watched Dumbledore, for a sign, for something. As their hands met, a brilliant white light formed around their hands, and it grew and grew. _

_The memory turned to white as if to brush past the melding itself. As if that would dismiss the tragedy, of a girl who'd pledged her life for a child she didn't know. From what Hermione had read, the ritual matched up to an Unbreakable Vow, and required the space between the Amourdonne and the protected. She'd gone over it dozens of times, she could recite the specifications._

_Similar girls, between the mother and the Amourdonne, similar names, similar appearances, as close as they could manage. Like they were selecting a new body for the mother to take over, in case they died. But it wasn't so exact as that._

_The white faded, and Amelia was left blank-faced and serene. She smiled at Odette, who was in tears. Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and blanked their minds as if it was no great effort to him. And in truth, it wasn't. He whispered new memories to them both, as they nodded and smiled._

_And Ayers remained frozen to the spot, as she avoided Snape's eye._

Two memories. Hermione exhaled, the heels of her palms pressed into her eyes.

_October 17th, 1981._

_Rather than Dumbledore's office, they were in an apartment in Muggle London. There was minimal furniture, but a broom was propped by the door and a cauldron was set on the kitchen counter. There was an assortment of shoes in a messy line, and mismatched jackets. An empty pantry stared them down, over dozens of empty Chinese food containers. It screamed of a bachelor, marked by wizardry._

_And Sirius was at his kitchen table, petulant as he glared down Snape._

_Dumbledore was standing at the end of the table, with Ayers by his side._

_"Now, Sirius." Dumbledore, gestured to Ayers, who looked miserable. "We've come a long way to ask you to reconsider. An Amourdonne is harmless -- "_

_"Oh?" Sirius shot up, his hands framed on the countertop. He had a tank top on, and several necklaces. "I call bullshit on that." He'd not shaved in several days, and she didn't miss how Ayers eyed him with a little too much interest._

_Hermione laughed, in spite of herself._

_"I told you, Dumbledore, he's too selfish and pig-headed to recognize -- "_

_"Oh, no, no, no," Sirius rounded the counter and shoved Snape square in the chest. "You wanna call me selfish, for saying I don't want some girl to take the fall for Lily?"_

_"If you truly loved Lily -- "_

_"Fuck off with that!" Sirius shoved Snape again, who collided with the wall behind him. "I love Lily, with all my heart, and I know for a fucking fact she'd rather die than know a little girl died for her."_

_"I'm not gonna die -- " Ayers interjected. "And I'm not a little girl."_

_Sirius rolled his eyes, ugly and harsh. "Sweetheart, do you know who you're up against?" He snorted as he approached her, to snatch her hands into his. _

_"The Dark Lord..." She said, softly. "He killed my mother."_

_Sirius winced, as he crouched just a fraction. "Doing this won't bring her back, you know that, right?"_

_"I know," she said, her bottom lip stuck out. "But, if she could have had a way to make sure I was safe, she'd have done it." She paused, an airy laugh let out. "I don't really have anyone, or anything to live for. I'm not important to anyone, and... If I can help stop the Dark Lord, I'm gonna do it."_

_"I felt that way too, when I was a kid, I promise, you're worth so much more than you think, you're worth more than this." He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, and she almost listened to him._

_"I'm not a kid."_

_And their hands glowed, bright and white, as they had in Dumbledore's office, as they had when Neville's life weighed on Amelia, on Alice's behalf._

_Now, Harry's life weighted on Catherine's, on Lily's behalf._

_Snape hovered between them, a cruel smile in place. He took their conversation as a chance to secure the bond, and refused to look at Sirius. Sirius looked mortified, as he screamed himself raw, and Ayers went blank behind her eyes. The whites of her eyes were all that showed, as her long red hair flared out behind her, like she'd been wrapped in a strong gust of wind. She hovered, limp in the air, until the white light died, sucked into her parted lips._

_She crumpled against him when the spell ended, and Sirius didn't even get a chance to be angry._

_"Severus." Dumbledore said._

_And Snape yanked Ayers away, and vanished. Sirius was left, dumbfounded up at Dumbledore, a gleam of recognition in his eyes._

_"You're a piece of work, y'know that -- "_

_Dumbledore wiped his mind, as if it were that easy. Because it was to him._

_They had no say._

_They were props._

Hermione had sunk to the floor, like Sirius had been. But instead of empty arms, she had Ayers crouched in front of her.

"Hermione?"

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, softly, as she handed the Pensieve to Ayers.

"Oh, okay, well," she frowned at Hermione, and helped her to her feet. "The books you found... The human flesh one, that's actually a manual for Death Eaters." She raised her brow. "Which does have segments, on how if a Death Eater died with a Dark Mark, their bones turn to onyx and... From what I understand, at the wedding, that's what you dealt with."

"Reanimated Death Eaters?"

Ayers nodded. "More or less, though it only happens as Voldemort needs. So..." She frowned. "He sort of just has... An army, waiting for him, whenever he decides to summon it."

"Oh." Hermione grimaced.

"The other book, I've had no luck with." She pointed, at the little black book with silver clasps. "I can't force it open."

"I have one more memory," Hermione lifted it up, to show Ayers. "Then, I think you'll want to look at them."

Ayers nodded, unsure, as she watched Hermione shift the memories around. "So I'm in these memories?"

"Eh, some of them, yes," Hermione adjusted the handmirror, to angle it towards herself.

"Oh great," Ayers whined. "My therapist is gonna be so excited to see me next week. Actually, she will, because she's lovely, but -- I shouldn't joke about that. Okay. Um." She shot a nervous look at the vials.

Hermione couldn't even warn her about it, as it was going to be up to her how she took it all.

It wasn't new information, per se. It was just a cemented idea of what had happened, and of how Dumbledore had exploited her.

The final memory.

_'if he needs to know.'_

_As she floated to her feet, she realized this wasn't Dumbledore's memories this time. There was something of a difference in the perspective, and how it felt to be in. She saw Dumbledore, with his blackened hand and wearied face. It was strange to see him now, as he had been over twenty years younger in some of the memories she'd picked through earlier._

_"Harry," he said, more like he was leaving a message than speaking. "I need you to know, that everything that had happened, had been in the interest of ensuring that when you died, you died when necessary. I've given you these memories for context, as to the journey these girls went on. Given you're unlikely to meet Amelia, and you should never get to know Catherine, I thought it would be nice, for you to know these girls were brave and whole in their intent to protect you."_

_Oh, Hermione didn't like this._

_"Morality is a spectrum, of good and bad, right and wrong. I act in the direction most opposite to the Dark Lord, with liberty and free choice at the crux of all decisions. These girls chose to work with me, and gave their lives in service to a higher purpose. There is every chance that Hermione has located this memory, and watched it before she handed it across. With her quick wits, I don't doubt that she'd learned all she could about the Amourdonnes, and decided that they are deplorable. And, as I come to the end of my life, I realize that they were wholly unnecessary measure."_

_Hermione's browed flexed._

_"Odette died shortly after that pact. Amelia died, as the Death Eaters wrongly identified her as Harry's Amourdonne." He smiled, as if this were amusing. "Amelia and Odette, Edgar, all of the Bones... There was no reason to bring them in, I see that now. It was always Harry. But age and hingsight make even the murkiest images clear, as you realize what could have been done, and how much less needed to be done. Now, that said..." He waved a hand, as Severus came into focus._

_"Much like how Severus had to kill me, he was put into a position to kill Catherine. He knew this, before Amelia or Catherine were chosen. Now, it's unfortunate that Amelia was killed, but such is the nature of war. As of today, in your Sixth year, and the Horcruxes continue to fester... You, Harry, are his final Horcrux. And your final safeguard had to be eliminated. I don't know when, or how, but Snape will have killed Catherine cleanly, and painlessly. Were she to know all this, she'd agree. She has always been a great asset, in her brilliance and in her service."_

_Snape looked miserable beside Dumbledore._

_"Just know, all of this was to protect you Harry... She lived to protect you, and died to save you. And once she is dead, you must die. It cannot go any other way."_

Hermione felt ill. She wrenched herself clean out of the Pensieve.

"My turn?" Ayers wiggled her fingers towards it, a bright smile on her face.

And Hermione let her.

What else could she do?


	37. fun or forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh. Just uh. Straight up. Uh. Plot? What Plot? 💦💦💦💦

Hermione approached the books that Ayers had poured over. By her watch, it'd been half an hour. It felt far longer, but she took their solitary nature as a good sign. It meant the party downstairs was still in motion, and that no Inferi had appeared.

She peeked past the door, at Sirius and Draco. They paused their conversation at the door's movement, and whatever they'd been talking about it, seemed light.

"Everything okay?" He asked, as he looked past Hermione to Ayers, who was bent over the handmirror Pensieve.

Hermione looked back, too, before she stepped out of the room. She'd brought the small book, the one that Ayers hadn't managed to open. She wanted to give the older woman time alone, in case she needed it.

Black tears ran down her cheeks and rippled through the silver memories.

"Dumbledore tricked you into helping Ayers become an Amourdonne," she said, quietly. "And Snape was tasked with removing Ayers, when the time was right."

Sirius searched her face, as if trying to find a lie, and huffed a shaky breath.

"If she's willing, and you want to, maybe check the memories, after Ayers..."

And Sirius disappeared into the room, the door snapped shut behind him. Hermione felt her neck grow hot, as she worried about Ayers, and Sirius.

She almost forgot she was alone with Draco, in their masquerade clothes. He was leaned against the wall outside of her room, his arms crossed and one ankle looped over the other. He had his head leaned back, against the column, as he watched the sky outside. It was a starry night, clear skies, and the hallways were dimly lit.

The echoes of the party downstairs were unsettling like they were intruders.

"Is it selfish," Draco said, into the silence. He cleared his throat, and rolled his head a fraction. "That I'd want to have a weekend with you, alone, no Dark Arts, none of..." His mouth twitched, as he readjusted his gaze upwards. "None of the bullshit."

"That isn't selfish," she moved to stand in front of him. "I'd enjoy that, too."

"Strange." Draco pouted at her. "Sounds a lot like something a girlfriend would say to a boyfriend."

"What about," Hermione detangled his hands from his inner elbows, and held his hands. "Something a partner would say."

Draco narrowed his eyes down at her, as he stood straight. She forgot how tall he was, until he stood next to her like this. He wasn't as tall as Ron, but she wasn't that tall. She tipped her head back like he was a constellation she wanted to admire more closely. It didn't feel comical, and he could rest his chin on her head comfortably. She could lean up to kiss him without forcing him down, and that's exactly what she did.

She interlaced their fingers and kissed him, deeply, the weight of the memories now lifted. They meant worse things, more complicated things, but at least they were on the right track. They knew that Harry had died out of order, which had thrown Dumbledore's plans out of order in turn.

As Draco's hand fumbled against the book she had between her elbows and ribs, he pulled it from her, and it fell open.

They both stared at it, confused.

"Familial seal?" She whispered as she glanced sidelong at the words.

"Blood seal," he whispered.

_For those of pure blood and purer intentions._

_For those He has deemed worthy,_

He shoved it into the back pocket of his slacks, as he spun her around. She puffed out a sound of surprise, as he angled her head back and kissed her. It was the same heat as The Library, poured into her open mouth with every insistence. He didn't wait for her to catch up, or slow to see her reaction. She was thankful, as they'd kissed dozens of times, sometimes slow and sweet, and less like this -- less like he needed her, completely.

"My room?" He mumbled into her pulse point, and she nodded, eager. And she felt the curve of his lips against her throat, as he took her hand into his.

"Wait, wait," Hermione slapped his shoulder, and tugged him back to the door. She peeked into the room, to see Sirius seated beside Ayers. He had her hand in his, one leg angled inward, his foot on his inner thigh. She was bent over the Pensieve still, but Hermione was clever enough to pick out the details. "You'll be okay, won't you?" She asked as Draco snaked a hand around her hip, lower, and she wriggled free of him.

Sirius made a face, but he bit back the comment. "Don't do anything I wouldn't," he winked at her, and she saw the man in the memories, young, handsome and full of life.

And she was gone, though the choice was made for her. The door snapped shut, and she followed Draco through the halls of the Malfoy Manor. She wished she memorized the path, but it was a broken string of kisses and gropes, as he'd tease her, never anything so gauche as her more private areas. He'd goosed her arse, or flicked her chin, or brushed his thumb against her bottom lip.

And she chased him, or ran from him, and it was a back and forth that persisted up until he grabbed her close, and shoved her through one of the dozens of identical doors.

And as much as she wanted to melt into him and have things persist, she had to pause.

The room was twice the size of hers, with a set of couches by a giant window, and four-poster beds that looked similar to those in the Slytherin dorms. He pulled her close and kissed a trail down from her cheek to her chest, all as she boggled at his fairytale prince bedroom, goth edition. She could see two other sets of doors attached to the room, one that must be a bathroom, while the other...

"Is that a whole room for your closet?"

"Did you not have an attached walk-in closet as a child..?" He asked, knowing full well that it wasn't as common as all that.

"Oh, you only have one, that's so sad, I had three -- "

"Now who's a spoiled brat," Draco mumbled into her collarbone before he nipped at exposed flesh. She gasped, and he laughed, and her gaze snapped back to him. "Too hard?"

"No, that's fine."

"Oh, just _'fine'_," he said, defeated in his tone. "_Love_ getting Acceptable grades."

"It's better than getting a Dreadful." She smiled, acidic as she fidgeted with the silver swirls that outline her hair. She picked them out, one after the other, not as calm as she seemed.

"You'd _die_ if you got a D, wouldn't you."

"Do not sully the Hogwarts grading system for a joke."

"Come now, we've not even done anything yet -- you can't call my dick a joke before you've _met_ it." Draco wriggled her brow, and she swatted his chest once, twice, and he picked her up to slow her assault. He laughed the whole way down, and she quickly learned that she enjoyed his laughter when it wasn't at her expense. Even now, as he dropped her to the impossibly huge bed, she felt distant, as if it weren't real, just another fantasy.

He'd ditched his mask back at her room, as had she. It was for the best, as she couldn't imagine doing much of anything with a mossy dragon skull peering back at her through the dark.

"Wait."

Draco was stood beside the bed, but he'd stripped off his outer suit jacket. He'd taken to working at his cufflinks, which she now realized were like little mossy bones. He paused, which she was thankful for.

"This isn't..." She scooted back, to draw her legs onto the bed. It gave her some space, and she felt the trainwreck begin to impact. "What is sex, to you."

Draco's brows jumped, as he looked around the room, as if in search of the source of this sudden right angle. "Uh..? Is this a trick question?"

Hermione shook her head, fierce and stern, all at once. "I know, for you, you've obviously slept with more people than me, Emily, I can only assume Pansy, maybe others, I don't care, it's not a numbers thing, per say, I just..." She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, as she realized there were silver threads through the gossamer dress she'd been woven into. "This isn't... It, is it?"

Draco didn't hide his confusion, as his mouth went wider and he squinted at her.

"I mean, if -- if you _get_ me, if that's all you want, then fine, that's fine, you know? But, I don't want to think there's something else to it, something more, and then there isn't." She let out a huff. "Actually, no, I don't want to do it at all, if it's just to _do_ it, you know, I'm not -- it's not a prudish thing. If two people want to do it, fantastic -- "

"Okay, okay, slow down," Draco sat, and she felt the moment shatter. "What's going on here."

"I don't know."

"Clearly," Draco massaged his forehead, his eyes shut tight. "I don't know if I'm just an excellent actor, but I can assure you, there's been no one else aside from Pansy and Emily." He licked his lips, to push himself further onto the bed. He collected her hands from the dress, which she'd begun to tear apart, like the sugar packets.

"Yes, but that's still two more people than I've ever been with." She exhaled, shakily. "Not kissed, but... _Been_ with."

"Oh."

Hermione snapped her gaze to him, her terror through the roof.

"No, no, I just assumed you'd at least pity fucked Ron once, realized he was trash, and moved on." Draco propped himself up with his hands and leaned back on his bed. "As for Krum -- that man is, _look_, I'm not gay, but I would have understood. Would hate him twice as much, he's as thick as a bowl of oatmeal left to dry, but I don't know, girls are stupid and fall for broad shoulders and fame."

"Draco!" Hermione laughed, which bubbled through the tears she forced back. "No, I was fourteen!"

"So was I, it was after Yule Ball dance practice, with Pansy, and I can assure you, I've had practice since," he said, half-hearted.

Hermione smiled, even as she didn't much feel like smiling.

"I actually thought you were dating Harry, for a while there."

Hermione snorted, loudly, and Draco pinched her cheek so hard she kicked her shoulder up to knock his hand away. "No way."

"Yes, well, you were always so close, and you were _you_..." He trailed off as if confused as to why Harry wouldn't have pursued her. He yanked her close, to pull her onto his lap. She heard the dress tear, from where her fingers had broken the fabric, and he inched the tear higher. It felt like when stockings tore, both more relief and tenser all at once. "Your little Gryffindor Trio was so far up the Big Bad Wizard alley, I think you forgot that you were teenagers for a while there."

"McLaggen really tried for it," Hermione muttered, darkly.

She felt Draco tense, as a shadow went over his expression like a cloudy day. "Pardon?"

Hermione's ears went pink, and she smiled with her teeth. "Nothing, don't worry."

"No, no," Draco said, his hands gently as they picked out the remaining sheaves of silver from her hair. "What did he do?"

"Nothing like I said," Hermione exhaled, as she felt the tear in the dress hit her hip. She'd worn the blue lingerie she'd bought, as if she ever had an evening to wear it, it seemed appropriate. All of her other pieces felt so beige and inelegant compared to the gossamer gown of silver and white, spun from spiderwebs. "Unless you count groping me through my sweater, asking if I'd come yet." She snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Would you visit me," he whispered, as he pulled her down, to kiss the marks he'd sucked into her collarbone earlier. "If I went to Azkaban."

"No, no," Hermione scolded, as she tried to pull back, to make her point.

"Oh, one little Killing Curse, who'd even know."

Hermione lost the ability to protest, as his index finger dug beneath the hem of her dress, to run the length of her panty line. It dipped beneath the fabric, that same pattern of relief and tension, just to prove that he could. His other hand had the good sense to clasp her hip, so when she jumped, she didn't fly off him. He chuckled beneath his breath, as he continued to nip and suck at her collarbone.

"You didn't answer," she said, softly. "I told you about McLaggen -- so what is sex, to you?"

"Sex?" He repeated, a quizzical tip to his head. "How about this, darling," he exhaled, to angle her chin with his index finger and thumb.

He'd never called her a pet name, not unless you counted _Lionheart_. Her surprise was painted onto her face, in her blush and the angle of her brows.

"I told you this was only_ fun_, and you ran. I asked you to be my girlfriend, and you ran. But you came back both times. And I waited for you, both times. And I'm still waiting, for you, as I have been for... A long time," He adjusted himself, which forced his erection into sharp relief. He'd not meant it, she didn't think, but it made it hard to think straight when she wanted to strip him down and run, all in the same breath. "So I daresay it doesn't really matter what this is to_ me_. To have you at all is more than I ever thought I'd get, and I have one chance, as you said."

"Well, I meant -- " Hermione tried to defend herself, as he'd taken her point to heart. More than she'd realized.

"I'm not going anywhere. You're the one, forever looking for an out."

"I am not," Hermione hissed, as his fingers continued to toy with the edges of her dress, as if eager to get beneath the torn lace and webs.

"This can be fun for now," he said, softly. "Or this can be forever. It's on you."

"What about you?"

Draco's lips twitched, between a frown and a smile, before he shrugged. "I mean it. It's on you. If you decide you never want to speak to me again, I'll wear that."

"But if..."

"Don't lean on the _if_ Hermione." He pressed a hand to her lower back and flipped their positions. It was so much darker, with him above her, and he waited.

"This isn't just another hook up for you, is it?" She said, so plain that she scared herself.

"What do you think?" He asked, coolly.

"As you said," she blinked up at him, in the dark of the night. "You might just be an excellent actor."

"Maybe then, we forget what you think." He bent down, to press a kiss to her pulse, then one beneath it. "How do you feel, right now?"

Oh, that was a bad idea. He knocked her knees apart, to sit between them rather than across her lap. He kept one arm bracketed above her head, while his other hand slid down, to find her wrist. She couldn't _feel_ how she felt, it was a mix, an absolute mess, of want, and need, and fear, and excitement, and she wanted to believe him, to believe he'd want her, that he'd continue to want her. She felt dirty all over again, as she remembered how he'd looked at Emily, with such distant recognition, like he was waiting for a train to leave.

That wasn't how he looked now like she was a test that came back with a two-hundred percent in the corner.

(She knew the look, it was sinful.)

But rather than pin her wrist, or hold her hand, he did something that kicked her square in the chest.

"How about," he pecked her, and nudged her nose with his, to make her focus on him instead of scrunch her eyes shut. When he had her attention, and her gaze, he guided her hand to herself, no further than her hand rested against her mound. She had the dress still, hiked up beyond any reasonable point, but that had happened as they'd kissed.

She didn't have to touch herself to know she was wet. The room smelled of it, and he wasn't dumb, and it wasn't the first time it'd happened, either. She shoved all the fleeting moments she'd silenced her curtains and rutted against her hand, to put her mind to rest, to make herself stop, and sleep, for even a few hours.

But she resisted, her hand bunched as he stared down at her, as if waiting for instructions, or clarification, and she didn't know if she liked either of those.

(She did, truthfully, she was an excellent student and a dreadful teacher.)

"I won't touch you," he kissed her, on the lips, slow and intentional. "You can use this as a chance to teach me."

"Don't do that," she huffed, red in the cheeks.

"What?" He grinned at her, as much a carnivore in his flashing canines as ever.

"Teach you?" She repeated, blushed from her cheeks to her toes. "_Really_."

Draco shrugged a shoulder, which moved the whole bed, and she wriggled her hips. Her fingers flexed, desperate for pressure, for anything. Even the slight shift of the bed had her on edge, and she knew that was a bad sign.

A very, very bad sign.

"If I'm a good enough first, I could be your last," he hovered his hands along her thighs, as his fingers caught the fabric. It wasn't a touch, more of a ghost, of the heat of his hands, and of his attention. "Unless you're too shy for that, because at some point, we'll have to graduate past eye-fucking."

"Oh, will we?"

And he broke his word, and she was thankful. It wasn't a touch, per say, just his thigh against her, for a moment, as he kissed her. He stole what little breath she'd regained, as her movements melted from shy to desperate, her mouth spread open by his kisses. She'd never liked kissing much, it was a power struggle, and she'd never win. It hurt, or would make her choke, or they'd taste like something foul. But Draco had none of this, save for his sharp teeth that she'd tongue by mistake.

The pressure against her shifted, so instead of her thigh, it was her own hand. Her shyness rose again, as she settled for pressure, just against herself, through the dress, and he sucked at her throat. He shifted his knee, which tore the remainder of the skirt. The bodice was it's own intricate thing, more fitted, while the skirt had slung low from the hips with loose, gossamer fabric. She was glad it was gone, it was itchy and awful.

Somewhere in the kiss, and the pressure of her fingers, she'd forgotten what it was she had been so worried about.

And Draco continued to smile through the kiss, as he'd flick his gaze, to watch her hand, and she almost bit a hole in her cheek. He kept to his word, as he kissed her, or ran the backs of his fingers against her inner thigh. She couldn't imagine it was as exciting for him, as her toes curled and her thighs began to wriggle shut on their own.

"Ah, ah," he huffed against her ear, and pried her legs apart.

"I can't help it," she giggled, and he kissed her so rough she lost the laughter. His hand strained into the sheet, as he used his thigh and his free hand to keep her legs apart. Her hips shifted and fought, to find more, to find anything, and Hermione was pretty sure this wasn't enough. She leaned into what bravery she held, as she pushed the pretty blue lace panties enough to the side, to slide her finger against herself. She thought she'd groaned, but it was Draco, and she froze.

Their eyes met, and she blinked at him, and he grabbed her by the back of the head and crushed her into a kiss.

She had been wrong before, about how she didn't like how a kiss could feel like a power struggle. She leaned into the harsh angles, and how he'd bite and suck at her lip. Her fingers slid into herself, as if they were his, and she could have him, if she wanted, if she'd only say so. But she couldn't speak, not as he used his vantage above her, to keep her legs forced apart, to ruin her ability to think beyond them, beyond the weight of him, on her.

She underestimated him, she realized. He was slimmer and leaner than Ron or Krum, but he was still much bigger than her. It didn't occur to her, perhaps because he'd never used it against her. He could have, but he'd never done it, not til the moment, as he stroked her inner thigh, closer and closer.

"Draco," she exaled, as he moved to bite at her neck again.

"Hermione," he replied, over and over, and she felt a fresh wash of worries as she saw how he palmed himself through his slacks. Not worries about him doing it, but it seemed like it should be her, doing that, and she felt so selfish, and -- 

"You're so beautiful," he smiled into the crook of her neck, as he looked over her, once, then settled on her face. "I don't know if I've said it, but you are, you have no idea."

"I have an idea," she said, flitty and suave, but it was marred by her gasp and moan. She hadn't realized how much she'd been moaning, as his fingers danced at the space between her thighs, and her cunt.

Draco continued to smile, as he sat back, to looked over her, his hands at her inner thighs, just watching her, watching the mess she'd unwound onto his bed. But she wasn't yet there, not quite, and she often found she'd stop, just before, because it got too much, and she just...

"Please," Hermione looked up at him, her fingers still sliding around, not enough, never enough.

Perhaps he felt especially kind, as he didn't ask twice. He caught her wrist, and eased it away, and she couldn't look as he sucked at her fingers, and nipped at her wrist. Not because she couldn't stand the sight, but because his free hand had dove in to replace it, straight away, and it occurred to her that his hands were one of the many things that she'd not given enough thought to.

Potions.

She thought of Potions, of all things.

She had watched his hands work apart pods, to tease out ingredients, with precision and delicacy. She had watched him examine and dissect the rarest ingredients, with no issue and his full attention. It never occurred to her that she'd fall prey to the same treatment, as he watched her face and matched her movements.

He _had_ been watching, and she hated him for it.

(She didn't hate him.)

While her fingers were long and thin, perfect for so many things, they weren't quite enough. One of his was two of hers, so when he slid a second finger into her, she had to slap a hand over her mouth. He shifted his knee, to pin her thigh, and grabbed her hand.

"Now, now," he tutted, a grin too wide.

And she cried, not intentionally, but it was mixed into her moans, her back arched as she tried to work out how the fuck she'd ended up here. She was still half-dressed, and he was fully dressed, and she'd always pictured this as something you'd have to get completely naked for. She didn't know why, but the sight of Draco is a half-tucked shirt that was pried open by her lips and teeth, it was a hundred times better than what she'd pictured, when she'd allowed herself such fancies.

She clenched and came, and he slowed, but it got worse, somehow, more intense. His fingers crooked on the same spot, and her legs fidgeted. But even as she felt the wetness spread, across her thighs, beneath her, he didn't stop. He watched her unravel, an absolute look of victory on his face, and she let him because she was on some other plane, where nothing bad happened and everything was white and bright.

Why didn't he stop?

He bent low, to hover by her ear, and she twitched, to hold him close, her arms flimsy as they looped around his neck, and buried into his neck. His fingers continued, and then there was a third one, and she tried not to scream in his ear, but she didn't try very hard at all.

"God, you are loud," he exhaled, against her ear. "Figured as much."

"Shut up," she laughed, in spite of herself. The laugh was eaten by moans again, as he doubled the pace. He'd gone easy on her, before, she realized, as she couldn't lay still, the pace so much more brutal and quick. But she loved it, in truth, it felt far better, but it'd taken time to get here, and she was so eternally thankful that she'd not settled for something else, someone else.

"I could do this for hours, you know," he mumbled into her temple, as she shook beneath him, unable to blink properly, stuck somewhere between Heaven and Hell. "You're so tightly wound, it'd probably take as long to get you to relax."

"I wouldn't survive," she chopped out, between breaths, as she felt herself hurdle towards something, something hot and white and bright, and she really hated that he was good at this.

(She didn't hate him.)

"Oh, darling, I've been so easy on you." And he stopped, and she twitched, once, twice, and wriggled up at him, a massive pout on her face. "That's, what, a few fingers? You've not even had me go down on you, or, had my cock in you -- "

"Draco!"

Draco opened his mouth, and laughed, too loud, and she shoved his chest. "I've been fingering you for the past half hour, I'm allowed to say that!"

Hermione laughed in his arms, until he resumed his heart-wrenching pace, and she came screaming a second time, panting like an animal, and feeling divine.

"My love, you're a handful," he exhaled, as he cradled her in his arms. She was crying, but not out of upset, or hurt, or anything. She wasn't even properly crying, but she'd curled into herself, into him, and grabbed him closer. He peppered her with kisses, and giggled to himself as she failed to find words. He lifted his hand, wet with her, and wrote on his palm. "Can't speak when she's come so hard she's got half the bed wet -- "

"Shut up," Hermione panted. "_Malfoy._"

"Ooh, Granger, are we going to go back to surnames in bed?" He wriggled his shoulders and stroked lines along her back. "I'm a fan, honestly. Has a haughtiness to it -- "

"Do you ever shut up?"

"I'm feeling very pleased with myself," he nuzzled into her temple and peppered kisses along her cheek.

"What about..." She rested a hand on his thigh and frowned. "You?"

"If you're able to move, I've not done well enough." He kept her cradled, and pet her hand.

"No, it just seems -- unfair -- that's all -- " Hermione panted, and hated how she felt like she'd run a marathon.

"Oh, this was all for me, Granger," he gestured to her, half-dressed and wet. "Your happiness is just a by-product of my absolutely engorged ego."

"I thought your cock was engorged," she scoffed, unable to catch the words before they escaped. She didn't quite care, as the man had sucked her come off his fingers seconds ago.

"Hermione Jean Granger," Draco whispered, scandalized. "Did you just say _cock_? My ears."

"Fuck off," she groaned.

"Watch your language, or I'm going to have to take severe measures." And he slapped her ass, gently, and she jumped. "A warning shot, if you will."

There had been no better time for this, she realized. They had no space at school, and no privacy. It was bound to happen, at the wedding, or here... But she wormed her way into his side, her hand brushed against his stomach, his ribs as if she now had permission to touch him. Adrenaline spurred her on, as they kissed, lazy and slow, and had that short stint of bliss.

Their breathing slowed and relaxed, as Draco shuffled her, so they could lay more comfortably. He'd ditched his shirt and slacks, and she'd settled for her half-dressed state.

"You asked," he said, out of the slow dark. "What sex is, to me."

Hermione nodded and tapped a pattern against his chest.

"It wasn't anything to me, just... Something, to pass the time, for fun," he stroked her arm. "But I don't know if that's true. Not..." He ground his teeth, as he tugged her up to kiss her.

For once, she didn't ask him to explain. She allowed him to use the kiss, to tell her what he couldn't say. She had no idea what sex meant to her, save for it being something she wanted to do with someone she trusted. And any hesitation she'd had, in her trust of Draco, had worn away with time and his continued growth. He showed her in his actions, in how he knew her enough to tease her, to hit her in the right spots, and how to coax her into comfort. She nuzzled into his throat, and settled somewhere between awake and asleep.

But such pleasantness could only last so long.


	38. you had to know at some point.

Naivety let Hermione rest, as she laid in Draco's arms, in Draco's bed, in Draco's mansion.

First, she regained her hands, which had become useless as she caught her breath. She realized how she was exposed, though still dressed. And she ached, though not in an unpleasant way. More like she'd worked muscles that'd gone otherwise unused, and the thought made her curl further into herself.

He was unaffected when compared to her. He brushed her hair and pressed kisses to whichever part of her was closest, and his ice-blue eyes had melted to a sunny afternoon sky. There was a sense of curiousity and wonder, as he watched her face.

As if he'd not seen someone unwound before.

"I need to check -- "

"Mmh, no, none of that," he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Not as if we're in any rush."

Hermione made a sound of disagreement, long and languid. He laughed at her, as her flimsy attempt to get away failed. "But there's that book -- "

"You cannot be thinking about a book right now, can you?" His arm tightened around her waist, as he buried his face into the crook of her neck, with kisses and nips. "You can't be done if you're still _thinking_." He said between pressed of his lips, as his hand teased her thigh, closer...

"Hey, excuse me," she swatted his hand away. She pointed her index finger at his nose, so close he went cross-eyed. "No."

Draco smirked, and she tapped his nose with her finger. He twitched away, and smirked even wider, and she swatted his chest.

"It could be important." She kept his gaze, aware that his hand hadn't moved away altogether. The heat of it was enough to make her twitch, but she stood her ground. Or, laid her... bed? This was new territory, in all ways.

"Only you'd want to _read_ after you come," he flopped away like he'd been denied a trip to the library. Or, what she'd do, were she denied the pleasure. He wansn't half as annoyed as he was pretending to be, however, as she could see the smile on his lips and the way he watched her.

"I'd read during but that'd ruin the book," she pecked him on the cheek and wriggled free, and fell straight over. He shot out to help her back up, and laughed when he was sure she was okay.

Once she had her sea legs, she snatched a green silk robe from the overhang of his four-poster bed. She then grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed, for the ultimate reading-burrito mode. She wrapped herself up into a cocoon, though her knees below were exposed. She toddled over to the desk, where Draco had tossed the book. She grabbed it, and went to sit on the couches that were seated by his en-suite.

"You can't read that over here?" He groaned.

"You'll distract me."

Draco slapped his hands onto the bed, which made her jump, but she smiled at him as he approached.

The book was closed.

"Can you open it?" She held it out to him, serene expression of expectancy on her face.

"My, my, have we forgone manners?"

"Please?" She wiggled the book at him. "May you please open the book?" She shook her head, to knock her curls from her face.

She watched as he accepted the book, and ran his finger down the spine much like one had to do for the _Monster Book of Monsters_. Her cheeks pitched pinker, even with their already blushed appearance. She would suffer in Potions, she realized, as she would have to watch his hands as he worked. The blanket felt that much hotter now, and he smiled down at her.

"You have no idea how lucky you are," he exhaled, as he handed the book back to her. "Were I a crueler man, I'd make you beg for it -- "

"Yes, okay, thank you, so kind," she flipped through the pages, no attention paid to his implication.

But she heard the way he inhaled between his teeth, as he resisted the urge to yank her back to the bed. It wasn't as if she were completely stupid about sex.

Draco walked around the couch to sit beside her. While she was bundled up into the blanket, like a human-sized Quaffle, he pulled her feet into his lap. She'd never had a leg massage while she'd read, but now she wondered how anyone went without. He'd catch her by surprise, with a hand a little past her knee, and she'd wriggle, but he kept a respectable distance.

The mood shattered around her as she settled into the book.

_A book for those most worthy, who want the truest words from The Dark Lord._

"I wonder," Hermione said, as she flicked through the pages. "If Pettigrew didn't give this to your family..."

The other book had been on the topic of Death Eaters specifically, and how their rituals and values were laid out. It also included ways for people to be inducted, or punished. The section on how you gave your body to Voldemort, forever, made sense with the Inferi attack. She eyed Draco's arm, her stomach in knots.

Draco adjusted his sleeve, which he'd rolled up some time since they'd arrived in the bedroom. He managed to cover the mark, which still looked raw and sickly.

But this smaller book...

The pages went into detail about the pseudo-science behind blood purity. It went on tangents, about how the wizarding world had been diluted with unworthy blood, and the victims had become weak leaders. It spoke about how easy it was to manipulate magic, if you abandon all morals, and lean into the dark. This was a narrow, weak point of view, as the balance between Dark Arts and Light Arts would yield the best results. But Voldemort was arrogant in that way, assured in his abilities.

Hermione skimmed this introduction area, and got to a section that seemed more frantic, and hand-written. It was as if someone hadn't even waited for the ink to drip off the quill, and got in wet, too many times. Splotches began to form, and the writing was frantic. It spoke about immortality, and how a Pure bloodline could yield the perfect heir. It struck her as similar to the Chamber of Secrets, that same sort of diatribe.

_The Perfect Heir_ was a repeated phrase, and each time it became more warped, more frantic.

"I think," Hermione frowned. "Voldemort wanted to replace his flesh and blood, with a Pure-blooded wizard."

"What do you mean?" Draco looked up from her legs and narrowed his eyes.

"All this... Okay, so, Inferi, they're rotted and not exactly a perfect. But with his attachment to immortality, I can't help but wonder if he didn't use Necromancy to inhabit them, for periods of time... Just to practice the art of possession. He'd done it with Harry, and others, it wasn't so unheard of. I believe it'd fall somewhere beyond Imperius, except you remove their entire existence and pour in your own. You abandon your old body for... The Perfect Heir," she pointed to the phrase, and he frowned. She bit her lip, and closed the book. Her thumbs remained between the pages. "Voldemort always hated himself, because he was Half-blooded. Obviously you and I both know that blood is nothing but bigotry, or I hope you know that by now -- "

"You're leagues above any Pure-blood I know."

"No, Draco, it's not -- no." Hermione set the book aside, to take his hands into her own. "I shouldn't have to prove my worth to be valuable, no one should. Even if I was the most untalented witch, who could barely levitate a spoon, I'm still a witch. Muggleborn, Pure-blooded, whatever their background, that doesn't determine their worth compared to someone who's parents have a longer magical lineage."

"Right," Draco said, slow and cautious.

"Who you're born from doesn't matter, your skills don't matter, it's _you_, as a person..." She scooted a fraction closer, to tip her head. "You understand that, right?"

"Of course," Draco shifted his shoulder, to face her better. "My point remains, you're more talented than most Pure-blooded folks."

Hermione searched his face but shook off the thought. Her intelligence was a part of her. She wasn't much without it, so it made sense that he'd define her by it.

Everyone else did.

Draco gathered her hands into his, to kiss her knuckles, and she was reminded of the Gryffindor boy on the Hogwarts Express, with his Slytherin girlfriend.

"I appreciate you thinking that," she picked through her words. "But I'm more than my magic."

"I agree," Draco said, without thought. "You're brash, and loud, and love to be right, and you get slap-happy at the slightest provocation. You are a screamer, as I discovered when you panicked about a little broom ride, and you make me think. About more than just school things. About everything."

Hermione huffed through her teeth, as she collected the book back up. "But this is alarming. He could be trying to move his last sliver of his soul into someone, to do what he did with Quirrell all over again. Harry was a Horcrux, he couldn't fully possess him -- but I don't know if they have to be willing, or just weak enough to accept him. Perhaps it's a process or something you have to work up to. It'd explain how he appeared at the wedding. Maybe he set this all up, before he died. Says here;_ He will come when He is needed._ Strange, how does one denote that he's needed..?"

"Hermione." Draco shifted, as he moved to pull her closer. But he slowed, cautious and then altogether frozen. The shadows of the room seemed to deepen, so she drew her fae light closer.

"And, see this... _A willing vessel becomes a second skin, for your ideals, may live on while you are dead; but to live on forever, all one must do is find life within their Perfect Heir."_ Hermione waved her hand. "It's so baseless, just words to scare people, but Voldemort was arrogant enough to believe he could beat death. No doubt he's managed to imitate a second-life, but I don't know exactly how powerful one could be, as a phantom at most."

Draco's jaw clicked as he slammed his teeth together. She looked to him, concern in her eyes, but he remained silent.

A hand slid over her shoulder, to her throat, but it wasn't his. The touch came from behind, and it was cold and dead. Her skin turned to frostbite against it and forced every hair on her body stand on end. Her skin died wherever she was touched, though she couldn't move to check, she couldn't move at all.

Maybe the book was cursed.

It probably was.

What little light she'd had to read by died in a flash, as if struck out of existence. All she could feel was the shake of Draco's hand against hers, whether he was stunned or just too frightened to move.

"It's a shame, how blind I was," a voice said, lofty and vague. "All that wasted time on Potter, when it all _you_, Mudblood."

The pale hand snaked to the book, which she had clutched between frozen fingers. They gave no pity to her, nor how her fingers fractured. She wasn't able to move, but the pain unfurled through her. She couldn't scream, or make a sound, though tears flooded down her cheeks, as her fingers throbbed.

"Hindsight, wisdom, all things one gains when they relive death."

She was curled up against Draco, half-dressed. A man in a silver skull mask walked around the couch, as they flicked through the book. Hermione repeated every incantation she could think of in her mind, anything that might release a full-body bind. That's what it had to be, it couldn't be anything else. 

"My apologies for interrupting this abomination of a union, I hadn't realized the younger Malfoy had gotten hold of the book, A shame," they sounded bored. "Young Mister Malfoy, I had expected your tastes to survive at least a few months unchecked. We had such hopes for you, your father and I."

Hermione saw the glint of her sapphire and silver ring, as they moved out of the moonlight. She willed a message through her ring, to whoever could get it, to Ron, to Snape, she didn't care.

_draco room help._

She made peace with the fact she'd have to explain the state they'd find them in. She just hoped she was alive, to explain.

And her stomach dropped.

The man had white-blonde hair, drawn back. She had seen him earlier, at the party. They looked like Lucius, but they spoke with a different lilt and their posture wasn't the same. The mask made it too difficult to pick out exactly who it was on the outside, but the inside..? Polyjuice Potion, or a cover, or it was just Lucius, screwing with them, she couldn't say.

But it sounded like Voldemort.

But it couldn't be.

Cracks sounded outside the door, as a group of people Apparated outside the door.

The man hissed between his teeth and glared down the door. Whatever he'd had planned for them fell apart, as he'd taken too long to gloat. His hand lunged out at her, where fingers seared against her skin, white-hot fire from how cold their touch was.

He forced Hermione's eye to meet his, and she had no choice but to stare back. He threw her face aside, though he'd spat in her face before he'd let her go. The door handle jiggled, once, twice, but it seemed locked.

Had Draco locked it?

"_Mudblooded whore_!"

The door burst open, and they cracked out of existence.

The binding spell waned. Tears rolled down Hermione's cheeks, as her eyes dried and terror overcame her. She tugged her legs into the blanket at least, while Draco remained half-dressed and equally tearful. He stared at her, as if to ask if she'd seen him too, if she knew. He had pulled at her, to bring her close, and to wipe at her face -- 

Except then Ron's fist went straight into Draco's nose, and Hermione panicked anew.

Ron had rushed in, along with Ginny and Harry. Mrs. Malfoy was by the door, with her finger wadded up in a napkin, blood pooled in the fabric. The door must have been locked by Draco's existing wards, which could be overpowered by familial blood magic. Hermione had read about that, in the past. Whoever had gotten into the room had to be powerful, or have access to every room in the house by default.

But whoever it was, they had the book, and the ability to use magic.

Her mind jumped in twenty directions but plainly forgot that she was only wearing Draco's green silk robes and a torn dress. That her fingers were mangled, and she had bite marks and looked beyond messy. 

Oh my God, and the room -

Harry had yanked Draco away from Ron, with the help of Ginny. No one made a comment, not about what they'd walked into, no judgment, no anger, save for how Ron shouted Draco down, about how he'd warned Draco, he'd told him to stay away from her. It was sound, echoes, as she touched at her skin, where she'd been afraid it'd necrotized. But she felt no marks, not to her touch at least.

Hermione panicked on the spot, unsure where to start. She began with Ron, who had his arm wound up to go for another punch.

"Don't!"

"Don't protect him, Hermione!" Ron barked back. "You send a message like that, shit's goin' on! I fuckin' _told_ him -- "

"_Stop_," Hermione waved her hands at him, ignoring the fact she was bundled up in green silk. "I'm fine, it wasn't _him_, it was someone else, they broke in."

Ron breathed out, though he'd not looked back to Hermione yet. She soothed him, her hands flat out, to stand between Draco and Ron. He simmered, at least, as she tossed a worried glance behind her, to Draco. He had blood pouring from behind his hand, with Ginny and Mrs. Malfoy either side of him. Ginny had her wand out, though her hands were shaking as she healed Draco's broken nose.

"That isn't what's wrong, put your fist down," she yanked at his hand. "We opened a book from Lucius's office, and an_ awful_ man appeared, but he spoke like Voldemort," Hermione tried to catch her breath, terrified, and Ron gathered her into his chest. He stroked her hair, and she forgot for a split second who she was meant to be cuddled against. He smelled clean and familiar, like the Burrow, like the Gryffindor Commonroom, and she lost herself. She felt him kiss the top of her head, and then he nudged her head, to kiss her lips, and she felt her stomach bottom out.

This wasn't right.

"Ron," she pushed him back.

And Ron seemed to catch up, as she'd not kissed back. She didn't curl into him like she used to, either. Instead, she pushed at his chest, to get away from him, and he let her go.

"Your hand, Hermione -- " Ron called after her, as she rushed away.

"Are you okay?" She sat down on the bed, beside Draco, who looked empty behind his eyes. She used her good hand to stroke his hair out of his face, but he was ice cold beneath her fingers. His skin was black, twice as bad normal, thick threads of silver beneath each dark spot. She swallowed, hard, and pulled him into a kiss.

And he kissed her back, and he warmed up.

He seemed to come back to life, like someone who'd had chocolate after a Dementor. He rested his forehead against hers, and sobbed, silently. She wiped at his tears with her good hand, her fractured fingers cradled in her lap.

Ginny made a vomiting sound, and Harry nudged her.

Draco sneered in Ginny's direction, through a blood-stained, teary face, and she stuck her tongue out at him. Harry moved over to Ron, who looked somewhere between resigned and confused.

"May we have a moment?" Mrs. Malfoy said, in an eerie voice. "I need to speak with my son, alone."

Hermione realized she was in a silk robe, half-naked in her son's room, and the adrenaline made way for utter embarrassment. Ginny summoned her coat out of the ether and tossed it over Hermione. Harry corralled the other three out of the room, with absolute silence between the group. The door slammed shut, though no clicks or bolts sounded.

Hermione looked left and right before she waved them towards a sitting area by a large window. It sat opposite Draco's room, and she didn't want to go too far from the Malfoys, given their lack of magic.

Ron moved with mechanical precision, as he took a seat with his elbows on his knees.

Ginny sat on Harry's lap, and seemed more shaken than Hermione. She understood; the girl had spent a year with Voldemort, and a book had been the way she'd made that connection. Hermione began to heal each of her fingers, with Ron's help. They didn't speak at first, and went silent once each finger was set back into place. She could smell the freshly cut grass on him, but it didn't hit the same place in her any longer.

They sat in companionable silence, as Hermione replayed the moments leading up to and including the assault. Once she'd squeezed all that she could out of the moment, Hermione cleared her throat.

"So," she said, in her cleanest voice. "I'm dating Draco."

"No shit," Ron rolled his eyes. "You could've just told me, y'know. I asked you at the wedding, and you lied to me. Makes me look like an idiot."

"Oh, as if you'd make it that easy," Hermione exhaled through her teeth.

"I love you Hermione, as a friend, as a -- as _an ex-girlfriend_, now, I guess," he made a sound, as he kicked the table in front of him, as his legs were too long for space. They collectively winced as the tray of decorations fell to the floor, and he made a sound of regret.

"Harry said you'd slept with a co-worker, so are you really that innocent?" Hermione cocked a brow, proud that she'd kept her voice level.

"That's different!" Ron shot Harry a nasty look. "Whatever, I mean, it figures, he's got, what, an insane amount of money, and a Dark Mark, what a _catch_."

"Gotta love a good bad boy," Ginny smirked.

Harry had his face buried in Ginny's neck to hide from Ron's glare. He withdrew, to look at his best friend, though he looked miserable. "Look, I never thought I'd say this, but there's bigger problems here than Draco and Hermione snogging."

"No, no, don't brush this aside Harry! Snogging is one thing -- " Ron looked at Hermione, once over, and she moved Ginny's jacket to hide her exposed calves. "Look, if he actually makes her happy, great, so happy for them," he shrugged, as he folded his hands in his lap. "But are we forgetting how he used to make her cry? And he used to bully her?"

"You made me cry more than he ever did," Hermione said, pointedly. "You bullied me more, too. About my looks, my grades, about boys, about not having friends -- "

"That's different!" Ron made a face at her, but it faded. She could see the hurt behind his eyes, and the way he looked more upset than anything else. "I never meant it. I just liked you and I sucked at saying it." He exhaled, shakily, his fingers interlocked.

"Well, it's the same with Draco. Except, we have a lot in common, scholastically and politically, and he really pays attention to me. He's patient, too, and I don't have to spell every single thing out to him." She adjusted, in Ginny's oversized coat. She fussed her hands out of the sleeves, to count on her fingers. "He can read me, he can be honest with me, he keeps me accountable, he enjoys reading with me."

Ron made a sound, but maintained his sad smile.

"As for _money_, he could be the poorest man in London, and I'd feel the same. I've never cared about money, not beyond being able to survive, and I wouldn't expect you to paint me with that brush, Ron." She fussed with her nails. "He's grown, immensely, and can admit when he's made mistakes. He's not perfect, but I'm not either. I... I feel like he's challenged me, and I've only been -- it's been several weeks, really, but I wasn't sure, if it was a good idea, but it's something I've thought about a lot. At least you all know now, so I'm not treating him like some secret; he's my partner, not a secret." 

A hand rested on her shoulder, but this time it was warm and gentle.

"No, please, go on, stroke my ego. Merlin knows I need it," Draco made a sound of encouragement. "For example, you forgot to mention how good I am in bed."

"Sorry, I'm a little spaced out given what just happened."

"I'm that good?" Draco said in a weak voice, as if they'd not just been attacked.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I'm gonna barf," Ron groaned.

"Can't scar you any worse than what you just barged in on," Draco said, dry as he sat on the arm of Hermione's chair. He snatched her hands up, to hold them. His hands were shaking terribly, and she soothed them with her fingers. He felt warmer now, at least.

"You hurt her, you do anything to make her upset, and I'll kill you," Ron got up, to impress his point.

"You kiss her again, they won't find your body." Draco remained seated beside her, though his tone was severe.

"If you don't stop being cute Potter, I'll kiss you -- oop, you messed up." Ginny pecked Harry, and he giggled.

Draco smiled, which surprised Hermione. She looked over her shoulder, to see Mrs. Malfoy. She had Tripley by her side, who had her skirt bunched in her hands. Hermione locked eyes with Mrs. Malfoy, who beamed at her through the dark. There was a sardonic edge to it, as she looked to Draco, and back, but she turned her attention back to the house-elf.

"We need to go find Ayers, and Sirius, we have to tell them..." Hermione whispered. "Your mother too, Draco."

"The party is nearly over," he checked his watch. "We can have a meeting, with the Aurors and Order members."

Draco helped Hermione to her feet, though gestured for her to go to Ron first. She had leaned that way anyway, and she approached Ron with open arms. They hugged, familiar and brief, and she pecked him on the cheek. As she pulled back, she saw how he strained, to keep her close, but instead, he smiled. He pushed her hair behind her neck, and let his hand linger at her collarbone, at the marks that Draco had sucked into her flesh.

He didn't say anything and instead withdrew, to turn back to Harry and Ginny.

Draco brought Hermione over to Tripley. The others followed, cautious of Mrs. Malfoy. She had the air of a dragon, protective of her kin. Ron, in particular, refused to look at her.

"Young Missus, your dress," Tripley tutted. "If you'd told's me you wanted to take's it off easy's, I could have made it's fall off." She looked to Draco, who was pink to his ears. "Worse than your father, you are."

Hermione and Draco mutually screamed through eye contact alone, as Mrs. Malfoy laughed in the sweetest, most lyrical way.

And for a few brief seconds, she forgot, that a man much like Voldemort had appeared, and spat in her face, and called her names. Perhaps she was so used to it, she'd been through so much, that nothing seemed to faze her the same. She was alive, as were all her friends.

They'd seen the memories, they had the Death Eater handbook, and a direction.

The mirth of the group faded with each step, as the news of Draco and Hermione melted away for the reason they'd been outed. Even if it was only Ron who ended up surprised.

Hermione felt the cold touch, at her throat, a mimicry of how Bethany had been strangled by a Dementor. She ghosted her hand against her throat, and walked in silence alongside the rest of the group. It wasn't until they got back to Hermione's room that Mrs. Malfoy spoke.

"No one in the party knows what's happened," she looked to Draco, who'd redressed himself in his suit. He looked unaffected, while Hermione looked completely ravaged. "Hermione, you wait with Ayers and Sirius, we'll collect you once the party ends. Harry, Ron, you're Aurors, so you need to be there to round off the party."

Hermione had never heard Mrs. Malfoy speak so much, and with such command in her voice. She looked over Hermione again, through the dark, and pulled her into a hug. "Thank you."

"Oh." She hugged the woman back, one pat, then another.

Draco kissed her, lightly, and she watched as the group disappeared into the dark. She knocked on the guest room door, once, and heard a scuffle. Screams.

She panicked, as the man could have Apparated to her room, and she shoved the door open and --

"Sorry, sorry, oh my God -- " she slammed it, red in the face. Her hands slapped to her mouth, as she pressed her back to the wall and slid to the floor. She was stuck somewhere between laughter and grief.

"Hermione!" A muffled voice called, and then scuffles. She could hear Ayers panicking, and she wanted nothing more than to Obliviate herself.

"Hey!" Sirius fell out of the door, as he skidded into a vase. "How's, uh, I thought you'd be staying with... No? We just... It was -- I mean, it's not what it looked like -- "

"I hadn't realized you'd decided to throw your own party," Hermione said, blank-faced and traumatized. To think, she'd been so happy only an hour ago, curled up with Draco.

If only she'd just left the book alone.

_He will come when He is needed._

Sirius stared at her, and then at the door, and he smoothed his hair. He feigned nonchalance, at least, as he simmered from his initial slide into view. "Ah, you know, things just happen -- " Sirius laughed, and tried to fix the vase with _reparo_ but dropped it, and made it worse. "Didn't mean to uh, didn't... Wouldn't have picked this place of all places, but things just _happen_ \-- "

"Yes, okay, thank you Sirius," Hermione waved her hands, to shut him up. "You're adults, I don't need or want to know."

Ayers posed against the door, and at least she'd used a quick series of spells to look presentable. She failed, however, in trying to look casual. The glittering whiskers that Ayers had shown off earlier were now on Sirius's nose, which made Hermione laugh.

(She had a bite mark. It matched Hermione's.)

"What is up Her-mi-oh-nee," Ayers drew out the syllables, as she tried to sound casual. Her elbow was braced on the doorframe, with one hand fixed to her head. The other alternated between her waist, her hip, and her chin, as if unable to settle on a pose. "Need to... Uh, talk, or... You uh, fight, with Draco, or -- " Ayers said, breathless and coy.

"Uh, no," Hermione blinked up at them, as she accepted Sirius's help back to her feet. "We opened the other book."

And she had to ruin their fun, as it had been ruined for her.

All they could do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the award for "most awkwardness in one chapter" goes to...... THIS ONE.
> 
> This chapter was a rollercoaster to write, and although it seems "neat", it's a lot of shock on Hermione's part, and Draco's, and I am like *galaxy brain stressed* because T H E R I N G S.


	39. the riddle diaries.

> _ **November 1st, 1998.** _

Hermione blamed the adrenaline for her silence as they walked the halls of the Malfoy Manor.

It was difficult to speak when your heart was in your throat. She touched her collarbone, to where Ron's hand had lingered. While couldn't feel it, she'd seen the deep purple bruises were all along the point where the man had touched her, whoever he'd been.

It was Voldemort, no doubt, but how much of him?

And who had gotten him in?

She'd since changed into jeans and a t-shirt, rather than her torn dress. This at least put her at ease, so she didn't feel so constricted and dirty. She had to admire that Ayers had managed to clean her room, though she'd not had a chance to sleep in it a second time. The thought was still nice.

She assumed it was Ayers, at least. Sirius wouldn't have cared, or wouldn't have thought to care. His hygiene was skewed since Azkaban, though he looked remarkably cleaner now than even when she'd last seen him.

As Hermione wanted nothing more than to curl up with Draco, back in his bed, but it wasn't safe. Whoever had appeared in Draco's room could come back at any moment, for all they knew. And so they migrated to a sitting area, just down the hall from Lucius and the other Aurors. The house was being swept, top to bottom, as it had been before September.

Sirius, Harry and Ginny were on one couch, while Mrs. Malfoy and Draco were opposite Hermione. Ayers paced back and forth in front of her, in an endless loop. Ron sat next to her on the love seat before Draco'd had a chance.

He hadn't meant to push Draco away from her, she thought absently.

Hermione paid polite attention as Ayers gave the group a run through, of the memories that she'd seen, and the information from the notebook. Hermione had heard it all, or even contributed to the theories, so there wasn't much for her to learn. Hermione allowed her to glaze over the details about her father being a Death Eater, and anything that seemed more personal than relevant.

"-- and he made a message for you Harry, but, he left it in the most -- most stupid location, in all honesty, who would think to walk through a solid brick wall!" Ayers worried her hands together. "Harry, you should definitely look at these memories, if -- If you want to?" She offered the mirror, and the memories.

"I would, please," Harry offered a smile, but it was strained. Hermione could see his eyes watering, but he wouldn't cry. He'd shout before he cried. She steeled herself.

"He should," Sirius agreed. "Always knew there was a catch, in all that shite that Dumbledore did. He didn't give a fuck about Harry, did he? And he made me out to be a problem -- I can see why!"

Ayers moved over to scratch behind Sirius's ear, and Hermione couldn't help but giggle behind her hand as he simmered down.

"So..." Harry had the Pensieve clutched in white-knuckled hands, as he glared down the floor in front of him. "So I died... For nothing? Or, I died _wrong_."

"You didn't strictly die," Hermione shuffled on the spot. "If we're talking semantics."

Harry met her eye with venom he'd long since lost. She didn't take it to heart, he had so much on his plate. It was meant to be over. "Felt pretty close to death, Hermione."

She looked away, at her hands, and dropped her chin to her chest.

"She's right though," Draco interjected, which made Harry's gaze snap to him instead. "You didn't die."

Harry narrowed his gaze, and only softened again when Ginny interlocked her fingers with his free hand. The faint trace of Umbridge's detention sat like a ghost on his skin, pink and worn.

_'I must not tell lies.'_

Hermione's gaze slanted over to Ayers, who bore a similar scar on the back of her hand, no words, just a patch of darker skin.

The Amourdonne acted as a shield... It'd endure whatever happened to Harry, at half the strength, to save him.

"I do have one theory. It's irrelevant, maybe, but I've been stuck on it."

"Go on," Draco encouraged. "The more we put into place, the better."

"It's more about Sirius, and Ayers."

"Hermione," Sirius said, his tone wavered.

"About why you saw her through The Veil," she added, to put him at ease. She'd not said anything to anyone, it wasn't her place to gossip.

The room went quiet, though Hermione had no real evidence to back up her theory.

"I don't believe the Resurrection Stone is what brought you back, Sirius. If it was, you'd have seen James or... Anyone else, from the Stone's summoning? And you said it was something to do with her chest -- "

"Sounds bad when you phrase it that way."

"There was light from her chest. Harry was struck with a curse, to the chest -- " Hermione pouted, as she adjusted her posture. "The godparent, or um, the person who vows in to protect the child, I believe they must have a link to the Amourdonne." She crossed her legs. "And the Amourdonne has a connection to the child. When Harry had the Killing Curse cast on him... I think she died, like Harry, and came back... Like Harry."

Sirius frowned, thoughtful.

"How did you two find one another?" Hermione pressed on.

"She was..." He looked at her, as if to ask permission to tell the story. "She was on the ground, in front of The Veil. We uh, knew one another, more from the time I spent in Grimmauld Place, when she'd ferry information to the Order from the Ministry."

Ayers smiled, in a plush, private way, and her face went red.

"Why were you there?" Hermione tipped her head. "Your department wouldn't have been anywhere near The Veil."

"I did work nearby it, not as an Unspeakable, but I would check their archives... But that room, I don't know. I don't remember, I think I had a... A meeting. Oh, I hate this," Ayers winced, her head down and her eyes averted. She was a proud woman, full of life and unapologetic enthusiasm. Hermione's chest ached to see her this way, beaten down and uncertain.

"Had to be Snape, hadn't it?" Harry crossed his arms, as if it were obvious. "He vanished from the boat house, then Ayers is in a strange part of the Ministry, passed out with no memory? He always meant to run away from the fight, to go kill her." He spoke in clear-cut tones, not as emotional as he'd been in his youth, but still hot in his tone.

"But... He failed." Hermione looked to Ayers, who was in silent tears. Part of her wondered if she'd actually cared about Snape.

Ayers had sunk onto the couch arm beside Sirius, as he'd looped his arm around her. "Even without the Pensieve," she made a sound from the back of her throat. "I've always known something was up," she dug her fingers into her hand, as she crammed herself into a smaller space. "Dumbledore always told me to trust him, completely. No matter what happened, I'd need to listen, because... I cared about the fate of the Wizarding world."

"Makes sense," Harry scoffed. "He set you up, to have Snape kill you, so I could die the _right_ way," he was back to childish petulance, and Hermione still didn't blame him. "Honestly, I'm in favour of that club Sirius suggested."

"But he didn't kill her."

A round of mumbles sounded, though Draco and Mrs. Malfoy remained stoic and receptive. Neither of them had much knowledge or weight in the conversation, but they were engaged in it.

"What if..." Hermione recrossed her legs, her brow furrowed. "What if he never intended to follow Dumbledore's word. Imagine, a girl as much like Lily as he can get, at his command," Hermione made a face, somewhere between queasy and uncomfortable.

"Didn't he take over her fiance, too?" Ron said, anger edged in his tone. "Who's to say that Snape didn't rat out the Selwyn family, and set the whole thing up from square one?"

"If I may," Draco cleared his throat, his hands framed against his knee. "And I mean no disrespect, but we had a man attack us, Hermione."

The group refocused, their tangent cut at the root.

"I suspect it was the book," Hermione said, sheepish.

"Oh my God," Ginny groaned, her hands thrown in the air. "Did my First year teach you nothing."

"It wasn't sentient, it didn't say anything to me -- "

"Hermione," Ginny shoved herself up, her hands on her hips. "Do you honestly think I started out with the diary just talking straight back to me? 'Oh hey Ginny, wanna go strangle a chicken for me?' -- no!"

And Hermione realized she'd never actually heard how the diary had wormed it's way into Ginny's mind.

"It was an empty book, except for three entries. It was some boy, named Tom Riddle, who wrote about a beautiful tree he used to sit under, and the way the Great Hall smelled." Ginny's voice was flat, compared to it's usual bluster. "He'd talk about how lonely he was, and how desperate he was to find friends, but he was too shy, too nervous. He sounded like the sort of boy I'd have a crush on, were he around."

The room was quiet, and Harry looked like the only one who wasn't surprised.

"Forgetting all that, I'd never had such a fancy notebook all of my own. All my diaries had dragons drawn in the margins from Charlie, or Fred would recite my entries it at dinner. So, I never really did the diary thing, at home. And then in my school books, I found a pretty little diary, and I thought it was a gift, from someone who cared. But when I got to Hogwarts, I was alone. Or, I felt alone. I had friends, sure, but whenever I wrote in the diary, the words seeped into the page, and vanished, and I felt better. Every entry made me feel better."

"Except now I realize, I didn't feel better, I just felt -- nothing. I lost weight, and my nails started fraying and my hair fell out in clumps. I thought I was homesick, or just sick... I guess I was. And then it stopped. Darker words started to form, I think I wrote them, maybe he did, but these ones stuck. I had to stare down my insecurities, all mangled up by time, and then, weeks later, He responded. He said He didn't know me, but He'd like to. Said I sounded like the kind of girl he'd want to keep close, to protect. He encouraged me to pour myself into the book, into Him, and He became everything to me."

Ginny exhaled, and caught her breath. She swallowed, hard, and her lips pursed together. She was seventeen now, but she never looked so much like herself in First year, not since she'd pushed past it. She was red around her neck and ears, and she shook her long red hair out.

"My point being, He's clever, He can give you what you want, and use you to get what He needs. If that book was His, doesn't matter if it's fluffy unicorn farts or the coolest idea for a new spell, it's a trap, so you'll belong to Him."

"It wasn't anything like that," Hermione said, softly.

"Hermione, that's my point," Ginny stamped her foot. "If it was anything like the diary I had, it'd show you -- I don't know -- a hundred surefire study tips! And they'd work, that's the problem. You'd begin to rely on the book, because it worked, for a little while." Her hands remained on her hips, bunched into fists. "It'd start with answers, and helpful things, and then turn into muck. One second it'll be a tea recommendation, then He'll tell you to stick your hand in the boiling hot water, and you'd do it."

Hermione felt her neck grow hot, as Ginny yelled at her for a mistake she should have foreseen. "It was gibberish, about a Pure Heir."

Ginny's eyes flashed, and she took a step back.

"Ginny?"

"That... He called me that," Ginny said, empty-voiced. "Like a pet name. Said he needed my blood, to become whole."

The room shifted, as the shadows died around them. It was sunrise, and Hermione felt no clearer on what had happened. Hermione felt an eerie chill down her spine. Harry caught Ginny's hand, and they sat back down on the plush cream sofa. Ron was furious, as he thought back to Second year. They were kids. They didn't know better.

She should have known better.

"The man was wearing a silver skull mask, blonde hair, looked like Lucius," she rattled off, as she looked at Mrs. Malfoy and Draco. They looked dejected, as if as much had been made clear to them.

"Lucius had guards on him all night," Harry frowned. "He was upstairs when you were attacked. The Aurors rushed him to containment when we went back up."

"It was his book," Hermione said, sharp-voiced. "I got it from his office."

Mrs. Malfoy looked angry, but not with Hermione. Instead she glared daggers in the direction Lucius was being kept, while Draco mirrored his mother's expression.

Hermione looked at her hands, as if they were boiled and raw. They had picked through the bones of Voldemort's mind, and they had pulled death towards the house. She didn't mean it. She just needed to know, she needed to...

Something was wrong, given all she could think of was the book. She should have stayed with Draco, she should have listened.

But He had called to her, to read the book in the dark.

She'd stuck her hand in the scalding water.

* * *

Although Hermione wanted to, desperately, she wasn't allowed to visit Lucius. She wanted to shout at him, or rattle the bars, or spit in his face -- but she couldn't, and wouldn't. Instead she drooped beside Draco, her arms crossed and her hands bunched into the crooks of her elbows. Instead, Mrs. Malfoy, Ron and Harry went off towards the sitting room they'd converted into a holding cell.

They'd said their collective goodbyes before they parted ways, which varied from intimate to familiar. Hermione was most surprised as Mrs. Malfoy hugged each of them goodbye, except for Sirius who's earlobe she yanked.

And he expected it, given how he flinched away. He laughed through the pain, and called her Nosy Narcy, and she jabbed his rib with a long finger. They both smiled, however cruel their exchange appeared.

_Cousins_, she reminded herself. They'd grown up alongside one another.

Hermione was left with in the sitting area with Sirius, now masked again, Ayers, Ginny and Draco.

"We should get you back to school," Ayers exhaled, her fingers braced on her forehead.

"Are you going to talk to Snape about all this?" Hermione raised her chin.

"No," Ayers said, sharp-tongued. "There's nothing to ask. Nothing I'd want an answer to anyway," she shuddered, and rubbed at her arms.

Sirius pulled her closer, to kiss her temple. The three of them watched, various degrees of amused.

"I feel like a parent," Sirius groaned. "Can you all just, head off, or quit staring, y'little -- "

"But, you _are_ a dad," Ayers laughed, as she wriggled in her clothes from last night. "I need out of this dress." Her hand snapped out to Sirius' mouth, before he could complete the thought. "_Children_, Sirius."

"You shagged, we get it," Ginny scoffed.

"It's a shame that the book vanished with them," Ayers interjected, as Tripley brought an ornate silver box full of Floo powder. "We could have used that to work out at least a direction to search."

"I'm glad it's gone," Ginny rubbed her arms. "Wherever he took it."

Hermione felt her breath catch, as she laughed.

And then her brain clicked, a piece fell into place.

"The book." Hermione stared at her hand, and Draco caught her elbow. She stared him down, fire in her eyes. "The ring."

Sirius and Ayers stared at her, matched confusion as their heads tilted. Hermione flapped her hands, panic in her chest, as she thought of the book, and the thread formed from the ring, outward.

She chased it, down the stairs, out of the atrium, and into the backyard.

And it spiraled into the distance, no end in sight.

Draco and Ginny had followed her, breathless, as they stared at her.

At how she stared, outward, her mouth dropped open.

"Hermione?" Ginny touched her elbow, gentle as she drew Hermione back towards the house. "You're scaring us..."

"I know how we can find him."

* * *

They arrived back in Hogsmeade at the Malfoy family home. Ayers had insisted on walking them back, for safety reasons, but Sirius had picked her up and they were gone with a crack.

"Sickening," Draco said, with no conviction.

"So," Ginny smiled at Hermione and Draco, false modesty on her face. "When's the wedding?"

"After your funeral," Draco adjusted his stance.

"Oh, come on, I'd be an adorable bridesmaid." She scrunched her nose, and avoided Draco as he went to elbow her.

Hermione couldn't stop thinking about the book, and the ring.

She and Draco had told Ginny about the ring, about how it had additional abilities beyond the messages. They mentioned Draco's and Hermione's, the enhanced Legilimency and the ability to scry for books, though they had no idea what Ron's or Snape's were. It was a strange conversation to have, as it made them sound like they had a secret society.

But as they reached the grounds, they split again, with Ginny off to the castle and Hermione left with Draco.

Alone again since they'd been _alone_.

And he walked too quick, and pecked her forehead goodbye, as he disappeared down into his dorm. She allowed it, without question, as he'd had two of his childhood homes invaded. His father was likely to be sent back to Azkaban.

And she was alone, with thoughts of the ring.

* * *

_ **November 2nd, 1998.  
** _

Monday morning was met with darker bruises from Voldemort's touch. It was easier to simply think of it as Voldemort, rather than clarifying each time that it was more likely a possessed member of the wizarding community, planted to work for Voldemort while he lacked a body.

(See, it's a mouthful.)

The bruises refused to lighten with glamour charms or potions. She settled for her Gryffindor scarf, which she burrowed into. People shot her odd looks as she walked down the Gryffindor table, and took her seat by Ginny.

The marks on her face were harder to hide, and she felt self-conscious enough about it all.

Which was made worse by the Daily Prophet article, matched with photos of her as she stood outside Sunday morning, staring into the distance. Draco and Ginny behind her, as her hair blew. It looked so mournful and vacant, and she had to wonder if the photographers had been out there all night, desperate for a photo of Voldemort, should he pop up.

She supposed she was the next best thing.

A girl they could paint as a victim.

_Curious Cruelty Cultivated at Crowded Charity Collection _by Calliope Cuette.

(If using all C's was her shtick, she needed a new one.)

_Yes, my darling hearts and debonair hopefuls, we have all the gossip from the charity event turned charity case, as masks turn to misery, and heartfelt turns to hurt feelings. Our liason at the party, Libby Appleflutter, assured us that unlike the Nott-Picard tragedy earlier that month, no one was injured or killed this time._

_Unless you count Hermione Granger, talented witch and known by most as the Muggleborn mentor, the champion of the casteless, the beauty with brains, who has been seen around her by her classmates with more bruises than words, more tears than truths. We needn't ask to know that while Narcissa Malfoy maintained a perfect party upstairs that there were darker truths beneath it._

_She continues to wear her engagement ring, but sources say she left the party with none other than the host, Draco Malfoy. Can Ronald hope to rekindle their romance, or is the world of Pure-blood politics still alive and well?_

The article continued, with details about the party and other fluff. It was rather tame and bland, as the whole event had been directed around assisting merchants and schmoozing. Of course they'd hook readers with some imagined tension between Ron, Draco and Hermione. The part she took deepest issue with was the skirt around her bruises, as if to imply she'd been hit.

"No one would believe it," Ginny spooned some porridge into her mouth.

"That doesn't matter; it's false, and I refuse to be part of their narrative for me."

"Mhh," Ginny smiled, as she endured Hermione's tirade, about women's rights and the importance of agency in your own story. Of course Ginny agreed, but it was a routine conversation that hit upon the same points each time. No one was more familiar with it than Ginny, who listened all the way through breakfast.

And Ginny even went with her during lunch, all the way up to the Owlery. Hermione had spent their morning class of Ancient Runes writing a strongly worded letter to the _Prophet_, to insist that her bruises were none of their business.

People had stared, before, but now it was ten times worse.

And worse than all that was the double period of History of Magic, wherein Ayers would pendulum between too much eye contact and then none at all, as she tried to act casual. Even worse, Draco refused to touch her, his hands in his pockets and his conversations polite.

And Hermione was miserable.

* * *

_ **November 4th, 1998.** _

_Lucius Malfoy Becomes Azkaban Regular, Third Incarceration In Three Years._

Hermione didn't have to read the article to know what it was about. She pushed up from the Gryffindor table, and planted her hands on the teacher's table.

"I'm not able to attend class today," she said, matter-of-fact, and Ayers choked on her oatmeal.

"Oh?" Ayers looked over Hermione, and gave her a curt nod. "Maybe um," she sipped her orange juice, worry-woven brows dropped low. "Is Draco okay?"

Hermione gave a half-there smile, and Ayers nodded. Flickwick and Sprout, who were either side of her, offered a sympathetic smile.

"We'll catch up, promise."

"Uh, no, Hermione, honestly, we're all catching up to you," Ayers waved her hand. She had a book on wards and protective magic splayed against a jug, and another book on Animagi next to it.

It wasn't unheard of for students to go to the teacher's desk, but Hermione already had the attention because of her bruised face and war-hero title. Neither she cared to think about, as they were just facts, things she lived through. As she turned to walk back down, a few people pivoted, to watch her go right instead of left.

Hermione toddled over to the Slytherin table on her quick little feet, not at all weighed down by her too-big book bag.

Wordless, she stuck her hand out at Draco, and flexed her fingers until he took it.

"Did you need something..?" He asked, an air of fear. He'd avoided her since Sunday, as he tended to do when things went badly.

And she kissed him, gently, in front of the entire Great Hall. Her face went bright red, though her expression remained unchanged.

Or rather, she looked more determined than ever.

Whatever Draco had been expecting, it wasn't that.

"I think forever," she smiled down at him, as he'd pivoted to face her better. "For now."

Hermione had never expected to be yanked into Draco's lap, in the midst of the Slytherin table. If anyone took issue, they didn't say a word. While Draco had lost his stranglehold on the Slytherin hierarchy, he'd rebuilt some of his empire.

"Please tell me I don't have to sit with you every morning now," Blaise whined. It wasn't a real complaint, not as Draco tucked his chin into the crook of her neck, his face obscured in her hair.

"You can go have breakfast outside, if you like," Hermione sang, as she folded her hands onto his. His arm was snaked around her waist, and she ignored how he toyed with the hem of her skirt.

"Yes, I'm sure the giant squid makes a mean omelet," Daphne smirked, as she interlocked her fingers with the button-nosed girl beside her. They giggled, and rubbed shoulders, and Hermione smiled to herself.

"Now, Hermione, a word of advice; milk him for all his money while he's sweet on you," Pansy rubbed her thumb and index finger together, and Daphne giggled all over again.

"I'm more here for the long-term investment. Emotionally, that is," Hermione rubbed Draco's hand. "I like him for his personality -- "

"Oh my God, lie more why don't you," Pansy rolled her eyes, but there was almost half the venom there used to be.

"Be nice," Daphne giggled, as she brushed some of Pansy's hair behind her ear. The black-haired girl turned a shy pink around the edges, though her red-lacqured lips said otherwise.

"Why were you talking to Ayers?" Draco asked, his voice shaky against her neck.

"I got us out of Double History this morning," she shifted, to climb out of his lap. "I thought you might like some time to process the news, about your father."

"Oh," Draco's face split into a look of recognition, as he climbed out of his seat. He looked her over, once, and let out an overblown sigh. "Yes, the news has hit me harder than I'd like to admit. I need some alone time, to, ah, sort through my feelings. A whole double period of class, for the matter... To be alone... With my feelings, as you said."

"Mh, you're about to have a hard time," Theo mumbled into his bacon and eggs. Draco snatched up a sausage and lobbed it at him, before he sucked the fat off his fingers.

Hermione failed to catch on, her face red. "No, I actually did just want to -- "

"Granger, what are you implying?" Draco pressed a hand to his chest.

"Why don't we go to the Library, and just, study."

Draco obliged, and she knew something was Up. Hermione did shoot back a look at the gathered Slytherins, who had bent their heads together to laugh and conspire. It could be about anything, as Quidditch was about to resume. 

But she wasn't that stupid.


	40. making up for lost time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am So Sorry.

_ **November 4th, 1998.** _

Hermione considered the Library to be a place of dedicated education.

Draco seemed to think otherwise.

"Excuse me," Hermione whispered, as he settled his hands onto her hips and pulled her close. She'd been inspecting a shelf for a book on the goblin uprising, given they'd miss History of Magic. She wanted to link her information to her projected syllabus. This left her as an easy target for Draco, who'd ghosted behind her, while he waited to strike.

"You're excused."

Hermione bit back a laugh, with scrunched lips and a frown on her face. She didn't jump as much as she'd usually jump, and perhaps she'd gotten used to him. Even as he leaned his mouth against her ear, and nipped at the shell of her ear. She warmed wherever he touched, though his hands were chilled. They were calloused yet slim, but strangest of all, they had become familiar. She'd never expected to get used to how he'd tease at the very hem of her skirt, as he ruffled through her robes. And she shook her head, to get free of his bites, and turned to face him.

And this was somehow worse.

"You realize we're in the Library, don't you?"

Draco gave her a look, as if she were slow. She hated it. Her fists bunched by her sides before she shoved at his chest. Not hard, not enough to push him away, but he flourished at her touch. His lips spread into an eager smile, as he reached up to pinch her cheeks, a habit he'd taken to that she loathed.

"Look at you Granger, all scared to get caught," he laughed, in his polished, cruel way.

"I'm not," she huffed back, as he walked her back a few steps. He caught her head with his hand, to save her from knocking her head into a shelf, but then kissed her so deeply that she forgot what she was mad about, Except, _that_ was what she was mad about. She struggled, between eager to receive his attention and his touch, and scandalized he'd taint the Library in such a way.

(Though she had kissed Krum a few stacks away, but she'd run shortly after with tears in her eyes because she felt so terrible about besmirching the Library.)

Draco bracketed his hand against the shelf behind her and her head, and she was stuck. Sure, she could bite him or shove him, and he'd move away. He wasn't so despicable, or so similar to McLaggen that he'd fail to get the hint. But then again, she didn't know what his plans were, or if this would devolve.

At a certain point, she'd have to stop this, wouldn't she?

Hermione managed to wriggle free, as Draco moved to kiss her throat. She remained between him and the shelves, but she could speak. "I really did want to talk to you, you know."

"Mh?" He hummed on her pulse point, and she felt it from her head to her toes.

"You've been avoiding me since the weekend, again, and now you're all over me again," she said, matter-of-fact, which she was quite proud of given his hand was now on her inner thigh, and she hadn't yet worked out how far she'd feel comfortable with him touching her, in the Library.

Technically they'd passed that point when he'd grabbed her hips, this was already too much to be appropriate. But she wanted it, and enjoyed it, and she missed him, desperately. This made for a cocktail of poor decisions, as her fingers bit into his biceps and her knees snapped together.

"I'd _like_ to talk," she said, softly, as she grabbed his wrist. "More than anything else."

Draco's throat flexed, as he stepped back. He seemed annoyed, from his squared shoulders and frown, but not at her request to stop. "Talk about _what_, exactly?"

"Everything," she put her hands on her hips, still shadowed by him, against the goblin history tomes.

"My father's in Azkaban, my mother's miserable about it, and I'm quite done with _talking_ about everything."

Hermione's brows furrowed, as she dropped her head a fraction to better frown up at him. "It's good to talk about how you're feeling, and what's going on. You can't always run whenever you're feeling bad, or -- "

"_Or_ what, Hermione?" Draco exhaled, so hard it grazed her face. Spearmint toothpaste. "You have no idea what it's like."

Hermione threw up her hands, in the fraction of space she had. "Because you never talk to me about anything, you just bottle it up until you feel terrible, then you avoid me for days until I _force_ you to talk to me."

"We can't do this; I can't do this."

"Do what?" Hermione rolled her eyes. He'd talked to her plenty of times, about how he felt, about how he'd liked her. It took time and patience, but she had both in spades. Especially when it came to him.

"It's dangerous," he said, sharp-tongued. "Being around me, it's _dangerous_, and it's going to get you killed."

Hermione crossed her arms, and he remained, bracketed between him and the books, confused as ever. "I'd already be dead if Voldemort _wanted_ me dead that badly, he had every chance, at the wedding, at your house."

Draco shoved away from the shelves, to look down his nose at her. "How can you speak about Him like you have any idea what He's like?"

Hermione wanted to retaliate, but Draco was one of the few people she knew that had more to draw upon. He'd lived with Voldemort, _spoke_ with him, daily, weekly, he was a peon to the Dark Lord, a method of torture for his parents, a way to control them. She crossed her arms tighter, unsure how they'd gotten to this point.

"People think I gave you those bruises," he said, softly. "And they're right, just not in the way they think."

"That wasn't your fault," Hermione bit down her urge to cry, for once, as she stepped after him.

"I opened the book, I let you read it. I keep putting you in situations with Death Eaters, and just being _friends_ with me is enough to get you killed; let alone what He knows now, about us," he shook his head, his fingers bracketed against his head. "It's a matter of time."

"Draco, just, slow down," Hermione huffed, as she watched him spiral. Worst-case to even worse cases, he was Harry all over again, when he'd pulled away from _everyone_ to keep them safe. It made her skin hot and her heartbeat too quick in her chest. Worst of all, because she couldn't do anything to stop it.

"We can't keep doing this."

Oh.

So this is why he'd been avoiding her; avoiding words.

"I told you, one chance," Hermione said, her voice thin.

Draco smiled, faint, as he stepped back to her. He took her hands into his and leaned down to kiss her. She pulled him close, closer than before, as she tried to get back where he'd been heading. She had no idea what his plans were, between the stacks, but they'd been derailed by her, over and over. If she'd stop talking, for once, if she just _let_ things happen...

And he pulled back, his hands on her cheeks.

"I _had_ one chance," he tugged off his ring, the one with silver and green, and put it into her hand. She clutched it, too tight, so it bit into her palm. "It's been fun."

They stood facing one another, in the silence of the Library of a Wednesday morning.

As she stood, with the ring in her palm, she felt her handshake. She looked up at him, in search of his eyes, but he refused to look at her. Instead, he was busy, hand in pocket, as he pulled out the silver watch he'd gotten for her birthday. He put it onto her wrist in silence and took her gold one instead. He smiled, in his snide way, at the cartoon characters.

And she let him have it.

Hermione sank to the floor, her arms crossed on her knees and her head tucked low. He didn't _mean_ it, he couldn't mean it. They'd barely been dating for four days, and he'd not even spoken to her for most of them. She felt so stupid, for how she'd went out of her way to tell Ron and Harry, and how she'd _known_ if she were to date him, he'd run.

He'd done it with Emily, and with Pansy.

How was she different?

* * *

The werewolves were louder that evening, and she listened for their howls.

Her watch glowed with the full moon, as she tried to sleep. She'd managed through classes, absent-minded and in a daze. He had been in them, of course, but he'd avoided her eye.

And now she had two rings.

She kept the Slytherin ring in her pocket, away from her skin. She didn't want to read peoples' minds by force. But it was nice to have it, like a memory. She had said one chance, and she'd meant it. He couldn't keep running away from her, and treating her like nothing.

One day he'd succeed, and she'd be nothing.

* * *

_ **November 6th, 1998.** _

Hermione had spent the week dedicated to classes. She didn't even notice how Draco attended less and less of them until he was absent altogether Friday.

"No clue," Theo put his hands behind his head, to look up at Hermione.

Blaise gave Hermione a half-there smile, of sympathy, and she remained neutral in return.

Pansy and Daphne were cuddled on the couch beside them, in talks, but Hermione paid them no mind. They looked like a happy little couple, and it made her stomach roil.

She willed a message through her ring and remembered when her hip heated up that he didn't have it.

It wasn't so late, as Potions hadn't run that evening. Snape had been out of school, and Hermione assumed there was some elaborate reason that she'd been left out of.

Because she was always left out, it seemed.

She jogged down the stairs, to her room. She had to wonder when she'd become such a lost puppy, between classes and meals, she had...

Nothing.

* * *

_ **November 7th, 1998.** _

Hermione sat in the Quidditch stands, her hands between her knees as she watched the crowds fill into the stands. She'd sat next to Neville, on the aisle, so she could leave if she became bored. She didn't have anything specific to be doing, but it was Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw, and she didn't have stakes either side. She didn't know any of the players, nor did she care too much about Quidditch.

She'd only come, to see if Draco had come, and she was miserable all over again. Ginny was beside Neville, and in the midst of a rant about how the Ravenclaw captain was an idiot.

So when Oliver Wood sat beside her, she almost jumped out of her bench.

"Aren't you meant to be a referee?" Hermione said, stern.

"Aye, but they're waiting on the Seeker," he shrugged, in his white and black uniform. He leaned on his broom, a sad look on his face. "Thought I'd drop in, see how you've been."

Hermione shot him a curt smile and crossed her arms. "I'm fantastic."

Oliver gave her a strange look, as he looked past Neville to Ginny. "Doesn't she..?"

"Don't," Ginny said, curt-voiced. She gave Oliver a serious look, which made Hermione's stomach twitch. "Don't stress about it Hermione, it's nothing."

Oliver flexed his brows, as he stood up from the bench. He took to the skies, to act as referee. He seemed to fly cleaner than he had before; perhaps Snape had actually helped him.

"What's nothing?" Hermione repeated, stern in her voice.

"Just a dumb rumor," Ginny looked to Neville, who'd turned red to his ears.

"Rumour?" Hermione continued as if to encourage the words out of her friend.

"Draco dropped out."

* * *

After a swift jog to Hogsmeade, Hermione let herself into the Malfoy family home. She had no hesitation, her face wet from tears and her hair stuck with sweat to her temples and neck. She flexed her hands, once, twice, and...

As Hermione expected, her permission hadn't been revoked.

A privilege that would be revoked shortly, no doubt.

Hermione hadn't thought this far ahead. Her miserable week replayed in her mind, her half-lived days stuck to her throat. She should let him go if that was his choice, but it was still a stupid choice. There was no sense in it, to ditch school for no reason, or because of her --

"Missus?" Tripley said. She'd popped into existence beside Hermione, as she tended to do.

"Take me to Draco."

"Oh, Missus, I don't -- "

"Take me," Hermione repeated, her hands on her hips. "You're supposed to make sure I'm happy, aren't you? So take me to him."

Tripley visibly bounced between thoughts, as she tapped her finger against her chin. She let out a small squeak of a sound and took Hermione's hand into her own. They walked through the halls until they got to a familiar door. They all had the same sense of style, but this one had a nameplate she'd not seen in the dark, that first night. The night that should have been first of many, not the _only_ night they'd gotten together.

Tripley knocked once, twice, and then door opened.

Snape peered out, through his own deep black eyes.

"Go away, Ms. Granger."

Hermione squinted up at him, at the man who stood like a bat, too dark against the white of the hallway. She tried to peek, left and right, but she couldn't see Draco. He wasn't in the chairs, or by the bathroom, and the curtains were drawn on the bed.

"No, I want to see Draco -- "

"I repeat," he moved, to step out of the room and close the door. "Go _away_."

It was eerie, to stare down Snape after so long. He didn't have Ayers to humanize him, which drew him into a deeper, darker place. He tossed his head, to knock the black hair from his eyes.

Hermione fumbled in her pocket and slipped on the ring. She stared him down, as she had with Draco and --

Nothing.

Not unless you counted the smirk on his lips, as he stared down his hook nose at her. He remained otherwise unmoved, his arms crossed as he watched her pace in circles before him. She fidgeted with the ring, hers and then Draco's, and she thought of the book they shared...

And the thread went through the door, straight through Snape.

"I want to know why he's left Hogwarts," Hermione demanded, her voice shaky. "If he did it because of me, because of _us_, then I want to change his mind -- "

Snape made a sound which could be a laugh, if you really listened. He grabbed her upper arm, to stop her pacing. His grip wasn't hurtful, but the mere thought of Snape _touching_ her was enough to sting. "How self-centered one must be to only think of themself."

Without thought, he delved through her mind, the Library, the weekend, so many memories, but worst of all, her accusations and how she'd clued Ayers into what Snape had assisted in doing to her. His grip went from playful to cruel, as his fingers dug into her skin.

"People aren't _puzzles_, Ms. Granger," he spat, as he shoved her back. She stumbled on the decorative carpet, which sent her straight to the floor. "They can't be pieced together, they can't be fixed -- you can't shove whatever you like into whatever crevice, and hope to find a full picture."

Hermione glared up at him, her wrist ached and her chest hurt too much to speak. He'd pulled _everything_ from her, without hesitation.

"Have you ever considered," he stepped closer, and she had to push herself back to avoid his feet. "That you make things _worse_ with your touch, and you tear things apart to understand them. But while you _understand_ them better, they bleed out because of you?"

Hermione's throat bobbed, as she pushed herself up. She drew her wand, her eyes red and wide from her tears.

"Tripley," Snape said, simply.

"Yes sir?" Tripley shuffled on the spot, her gaze fixed on the carpet that lay askew.

"Send her back to school."

"Don't you dare -- " Hermione began, before she found herself in her bed at Hogwarts.

Fucking elf magic.

It was dark; darker than it should be. She stared around, in the blackness. Her watch said it...

** _November 9th, 1998._ **

Had been a whole day, and night.

She had arrived at the Malfoy Mansion Saturday, around ten in the morning. It was now midnight on Sunday...

Hermione hadn't had a panic attack in a long time, and yet one seized her, body and soul. Her chest ached. She sat in her four-poster bed, in the darkness, tears down her cheeks. She couldn't remember, not the night nor the day, and all she could remember was Snape, who'd denied her the chance to see Draco.

She threw up, unsure why that was her natural reaction to a nightmare. She could remember the sun as it burst through the windows, and the way she'd stared up at Snape through the dark.

When her vision cleared and her chest detangled, she cleaned away the vomit and sat in the silence of her late-night dorm. She went to fidget with her ring, and failed.

There was no ring.

She looked, back and front, and her hand was bare. She threw open her curtains, and dug through her robes, through her trunk.

"What are you doing Hermione?" Pansy groaned from Daphne's bed. The pair had taken to sharing their beds, which they'd pushed together.

Hermione was too busy with her frantic search for her ring, and for Draco's.

And she found neither.

It was strange, to have both Emily and Pansy settle beside her as she cried. None of them said anything, but they'd both been scorned by Draco in the past. They seemed to misunderstand why she was so upset, but she allowed them to comfort her. She was just tired, and miserable, and she wanted Draco to come back.

And she felt so stupid for that thought.

* * *

Hermione waited for History of Magic to finish, her eyes ringed with dark circles form a lack of sleep.

Ayers seemed unsurprised.

As the class filed out, atwitter with gossip and giggles, Hermione felt her stomach drop.

"Hey Hermione," Ayers said, her weight rested on the desk. "I thought you'd take the Draco thing pretty hard."

Hermione lofted her gaze to Ayers, her usually bright brown eyes emptier now. "Do you know why?"

"His mother can't handle the estates on her own," Ayers crossed her arms, a frown on her face. "Said he needs to be there for her."

Hermione dropped her gaze to her hands. She had expected them to have a year together, to enjoy Hogwarts and kiss in secret, and to cuddle in the dormitories. Her list was impossible, it seemed.

"He might come back," Ayers said, in a light voice. "Depends how it um, goes, I guess."

"How what goes?"

"I meant the -- the estates," Ayers' voice crackled, as she fidgeted with the figurines on her desk.

Hermione smiled, and nodded. "Snape was at his house, he knows -- "

"He knows I know, yeah," Ayers' flexed her hands. "It was going to happen eventually. I mean, it's nothing too terrible, just the knowledge that I have to die to help kill Voldemort, you know, nothing major."

Hermione knew she should have laughed, or pushed for more information, but she couldn't find it in herself to do either. Snape's words bounced in her head, about how she only seemed to make things worse. It was true; she'd brought Voldemort into the party, and she'd outed Ayers' knowledge to Snape, and she'd done a dozen other things wrong. Worst of all, she'd made Draco leave school.

He'd endured bullying, taunts, threats, and so much more -- and she'd been the thing to ruin Hogwarts for him. He wouldn't even see her when she'd turned up to his house. But that was simply another thing she'd done wrong, wasn't it?

Hermione collected her books, her expression empty. She had taken notes, and her classwork hadn't worsened.

_ **November 13th, 1998.** _

"You could just go after Wood," Ginny suggested, as they laid on the Hogwarts grounds by the lake. Potions had been miserable as ever, and it was made even worse by her one-on-one time with Snape.

It'd been nine days since she'd heard from Draco, and almost two weeks since the Hallow's Eve event.

(Not that she was counting.)

"He's a teacher," Hermione rubbed at her eyes, as they stared up at the constellations.

"I asked McGonagall on your behalf, she said that there's no conflict of -- ow, I'm kidding!" Ginny grinned as Hermione had jabbed her in the ribs. "I'm just saying, I get that..." Ginny exhaled through her nose, her hands folded on her stomach.

"What are you _just saying?_" Hermione's voice remained non-plussed, as she pieced together her own constellations with her eyes. It was so much nicer than Diagon Alley, with real stars, not the fake ones that they'd enchant to replace them. There was no smog here, no city lights to blot out the stars.

"Maybe it was really just a pride thing," Ginny's voice was small. "It'd be a prickish thing to do, but he's always been a prick."

Hermione remained still, as she blinked up at the stars. "He might just be an excellent actor."

Ginny pushed up from the grass, and offered her hand out to Hermione. "But which part's the act, and which part is him?"

Hermione had her hands folded on her stomach, as she tightened her grip. "I don't know."

"If he can just throw you aside like this, he's a prick," Ginny stared down at Hermione.

"I just want to know _why_," Hermione accepted her hand, to stand up.

"After a certain point, the _why_ stops mattering." Ginny wiped at Hermione's eyes. She'd not cried much the past two weeks, as much as she wanted to. She'd kept it together.

Even as she repeated those thoughts, about how she had gotten back to Hogwarts, and where she'd been for a full day and a half.

Her thumb touched at her bare ring finger, and she cuddled her hand to her chest. Her finger brushed against the watch, the silver one that Draco had traded with her. She would take it off, were it not practical. It showed a mirror image to the sky above her, with a little moon hung just above the face of it when she held it at a certain angle.

A swath of silver-blonde hair hung in the forest and vanished before she'd gotten a good look.

"I saw something," she said, her voice empty. "In the forest."

"That's our sign to get back to our dorms," Ginny said with a ripple through her spine, as she hugged Hermione goodbye. "Go sleep, 'Mione."

And Hermione waved and smiled -- before she made a beeline for the forest. She glanced over her shoulder, to ensure that Ginny didn't watch her disappear, and broke into a sprint when she was sure she was alone.

She walked with quick steps, over logs and beneath fallen trees. She hadn't felt much of anything before this moment, as her blood pumped through her veins and the songs of the forest blotted out the silence of the grounds. She knew this was a bad idea, top to bottom, but she delved into the woods.

It was easy to follow the forged paths between the giant trees; it was only a bad idea to stray into the brambles or to go into the darker segments. The canopy had wide holes cut into it, which allowed moonlight to breathe life into the forest.

A hand snapped out, to grab her throat. Their grip shifted, from her throat to her arms, as they spun her and yanked her...

And it was a wide-eyed girl with wild white-blonde hair pulled her close, to inspect her face.

She smelled of the earth, and her face was smothered in freckles. She looked familiar, but the terror that beat through Hermione's veins was far greater than anything else.

But she had seen those dark blue eyes before.

"Ivana!"

The white-blonde haired girl spun, to look at an all-too-familiar figure.

"She was sneaking around, Lav, I wasn't gonna -- "

"She's a student, don't _hurt_ her," Lavender said, before recognition bloomed. "Oh, of course it's _you_."

It took Hermione a second, as her face was half-missing She had an eye patch, but the skin around it was gnarled beyond reason. She looked much the same otherwise, curly brown hair and dark skin, with freckles. She had Muggle clothes on, and looked somewhat cleaner than Ivana. While Lavender looked a little haggard, but otherwise presentable, Ivana had too many belts and teeth strapped to her hips. She had a wild black coat on, with a hood. It was furry and oversized and covered the fact she was barefoot.

"Yes, hello," Lavender sniffed, as she pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm so sorry for Ivana, she's got no people skills."

"You're..."

"Yes, I'm a mangled mess, a werewolf, a tragedy, take your pick, oh isn't it _so_ funny," Lavender rolled her eyes. "Honestly, why did it have to be _you_, I thought Wood might stumble out here one day, at least I'd have someone cute -- "

"I'm cute!" Ivana snarled.

Lavender made a face.

"No one told me," Hermione frowned. "That you were alive."

"Good." Lavender smiled, in a way that suggested she wanted to be anywhere else. "I wouldn't say I'm alive; I'm living, sure, but... Alive?" She shook her head.

The pieces clicked. Hermione looked at Ivana, who was pretty beneath the dirt and gnarled hair. She fidgeted, more like an animal than a person. "Are you Grimward's sister..?" Hermione said in a small voice.

Ivana's face flickered, as she seemed to come back to reality for a split second.

And several cracks sounded, as several shadowed figures formed. The two girls ahead of her panicked, as Ivana hissed and Lavender sniffed at the air. Hermione had read that werewolves had _somewhat_ heightened senses, though it varied from person to person. Some retained their humanity, while others leaned into their animalistic tendencies.

"Again?" Lavender hissed, as she drew her wand. She shot a Patronus into the air, which was a weasel. "Get the Order," she whispered to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SAID I WAS SORRY.


	41. two steps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💦💦💦💦

> **_November 13th, 1998_**.

The dark of the forest allowed the three girls to shift backward, and lay low in the shadows. Lavender had Hermione's arm in her grip, to still Hermione's hand. She had drawn her wand by habit, though she had no idea who these people were. But Ivana and Lavender were on edge, frozen and silent.

"C'mon," Lavender whispered against Hermione's ear, as she drew her back towards Hogwarts. She was a fair way into the forest, which she hadn't noticed in her pursuit of Ivana. She had crept through these forests before, but it never got less terrifying.

The figures crunched and crackle behind them. They spoke in whispers that Hermione couldn't make out what they were saying. It wasn't English, and she hadn't a chance to cast a translation spell. Lavender kept her moving, with the hand beneath her underarm and the pressure to get away.

And then Hermione's foot slipped, as it fell through a gap in exposed tree roots. Her heel cracked against a dry branch, which seemed ten times louder than it should be.

The figures all snapped to attention, and a slash of green shot through the forest.

"Shit, run!" Lavender broke into a sprint, though she kept Hermione's arm in her grip. She was stronger than Hermione, being both taller and wider. Her gnarled face might have something to do with it -- she was a werewolf, wasn't she?

The urgent, unintelligible language turned to shouts, and Hermione dropped her head as she ran. Tree bark splintered off, to fly into her eyes and splash against her front. She could hear them in pursuit, though she'd lost sight of Ivana. She'd stayed behind. Hermione looked back, to see the ragged man with sickly yellow teeth. A spell whizzed past her ear and sizzled the ends of her hair.

"Ivana?" Hermione called, and Lavender swung Hermione around a tree, to help her avoid a stunning spell. Lavender was struck, but she growled beneath her breath and shook off the incantation.

As Hermione pushed away from the tree, she saw Ivana.

"We can't leave her -- "

"Trust me, we can."

She had blood on her hands and mouth, her nails caked in deep red blood. One man laid at her feet, as he scrabbled for his wand. Before he had a chance, he'd yanked him up by his forearm, and twisted her wrist -- his arm snapped like a twig. Ivana screeched into the sky, her waist-length white-blonde hair like moonlight. The black coat gave her the look of a wolf, as she lunged at a man who'd flanked her.

Hermione nearly threw up, as the sounds of meaty swaths being torn apart echoed. Several other howls sounded, though it wasn't a full moon.

A lump soared through the sky, which landed with a wet thud. It was a man's arm, still clutching a wand. A Dark Mark winked up at her, glittering silver and black.

As they reached the thinned outskirts of the forest, the screams and visceral cracks of bone and muscles were a chorus. Hermione heard Ivana howl again, which was met with distant howls. They had a pack, and she had to wonder if werewolves could change outside of the full moon. That was impossible, wasn't it?

Her mind went to Fenrir, who leaned into his animalistic side.

"She's human, isn't she?" Hermione exhaled, her eyes wide. 

"Sometimes," Lavender said, annoyed. "I'm fine by the way, thanks _so _much or asking."

Hermione grimaced, even as she saw figures approach from the grounds. She had cuts and scratches across her hands and face, from the razor-sharp branches and pieces of wood that flecked from the trees. As the figures got closer, she could pick out red hair first.

Ayers, Oliver and McGonagall came into focus, out of breath and terrified. Each had their wands out, and Hermione felt her stomach clench.

This was the Order?

"Only six or so; no proper attack strategy. Gonna bet Moldy was testing response time," Lavender looked between Ayers and McGonagall, and refused to look at Oliver.

"Me. Granger," McGonagall stepped into the forest. "We'll talk about this later."

"Yes, well, Ivana will need help with the bodies," Lavender turned her face away. "Stay out of the forest, _Hermione_." She shoved Hermione towards the trio, as she pivoted back towards where they'd come from.

McGonagall and Ayers rushed forward, as Oliver helped Hermione back to her feet. She stood in his arms, longer than she realized. She watched as their wandlight died as they got deeper into the forest.

"Why'd you go into the forest?" He asked, his voice soft and his touch light. He pulled her thick hair out of her face, as it'd stuck to her nose and woven into her eyelashes.

"I thought I saw someone."

"That's a reason to get a teacher -- "

"I thought it was Draco."

Oliver looked at where Ayers and McGonagall vanished to, then back to Hermione. "You went into the forest for _Malfoy__?_" He tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled down at her. "You shouldn't be chasing boys who run, Granger. They just want t'see you stumble."

Hermione stared up at Oliver, in the moonlight, and wondered why it had to be so difficult for her. But when she looked at him, she saw the clumsy swoop of his posture and how he was broad with no finesse.

"Let's get you to your dorm -- "

Hermione's head cracked to the side, as she caught sight of silver hair and black robes. At first, she thought she'd imagined it until he looked her dead in the eyes.

Draco stood a dozen paces away, and looked undecided on what he'd stumbled upon. His wand was out, by his side, as he stared Oliver down.

"Took you long enough," Oliver scoffed. He kept Hermione close, which she wished she'd not allowed. "They already went further in." He jerked his head, to tell them where to go.

"Are you really going to try to tell me what to do, Wood?" Draco hissed, his chin lifted and his wand pointed at Oliver.

Snape emerged, as he caught Draco's wrist. He forced his hand down, to hold his own wand aloft. "Where are they?"

"North-east, follow th'body parts. There were six, Lavender said. No structure, they just popped in..." He looked back at Hermione, whom he brushed his hand over to knock some leaves out of her hair.

"Don't," Hermione fussed, as she shook her head.

Oliver hadn't even noticed he'd done it, as his hand flinched away from her head. Draco narrowed his eyes at Oliver, as he stood beside Snape.

"Six people... All dead? You're sure?" Snape kept his tone cool, as he looked in the direction that Oliver had explained.

"Ivana got to them first." Oliver grimaced.

Snape massaged his forehead, as he set his hand on his hip. "We needed at least one of them alive."

Oliver stepped back from Hermione, to stand between her and the two men. It was then she realized that Snape was _Snape_, not Selwyn. It's why he'd blended so deeply into the forest. Perhaps it was because of the late hour; she doubted he had enough Polyjuice Potion to keep him overnight. It'd be near-impossible.

"They're getting sloppier with their excursions," Oliver said, a stern look on his face.

Snape raised a brow at Oliver, though he rotated his gaze between Oliver and Hermione. He rolled his shoulders before he pivoted, to search for Ayers and McGonagall.

"Hermione, you should head back to your dorm." Oliver snatched her hand, to tug her back. She had walked towards Draco without thought.

"No," Hermione said, her voice sharp. "Let me go."

Draco watched, stuck between following Snape and staring at her. She grit her teeth and yanked, to get away from Oliver. Draco had started into the forest, and it only took ten paces to lose sight of him again. The forest was like that at night, so dreadful and thick. She stared after him, more questions than ever.

Hermione let Oliver pull her out of the forest, as she struggled to process what had happened. There were droves of dark figures appearing in the woods on a regular basis.

And Draco had treated her like she was nothing.

She had become nothing.

> _**November 16th, 1998**_.

To her surprise, Draco was in Ancient Runes the next morning. She had grieved the loss of him, only to find him back again. But instead of excited, she felt hollow. She was mad at him, so very mad, for how he disappeared and how he broke her heart on repeat. She didn't try to chase him this time, because at least he'd be around if she left him alone.

The black marks on his skin were worse now. The silver was like magma beneath his skin. He didn't take notes in classes. Then again, she hardly took notes either, as she spent her lessons terrified of how much he'd deteriorated in the weeks since she'd seen him.

He looked like a wax figure, sallow with dark circles around his eyes. His hair was unwashed and he looked beyond exhausted. If he was sleeping, it wasn't good. She was reminded of his Sixth year, as the weight of Voldemort's orders weighed him down. She tried to speak to him, but he'd not even register her like he was in a daze.

What was worse, she wanted to ask him who had turned up in the Forbidden Forest, and why he'd tried to drop out. She wanted to know why he'd come back.

But instead, she was a voyeur. She spent the week impatient and distant and did her homework with mechanical hands and eyes. She didn't have her ring anymore, or his, and they had no further information on the Amourdonne. Any hopes they'd had to progress their pursuit of what was left of Voldemort rested with those rings, and they'd vanished.

Even Ayers seemed to have deflated, from the brilliant woman on Hallow's Eve. She kept her classes simple and sweet, with half the enthusiasm and youth that she normally had.

Winter approached with snow and darkness, and Hermione blamed that.

Even though she knew it was more than that.

> _**November 20th, 1998**_.

Potions was as dismal as ever.

Even as the Seventh years filed out with their mountain of essays, Hermione felt envious. At least their problems were clear-cut with a set answer and an endpoint. She was stuck with a puzzle and no further pieces. She was seated at one side of the classroom, while Draco was invested in a book on the opposite side.

And then there was Snape, disguised as Selwyn.

"I'll need your assistance again with Wolfsbane Potion," Snape said, as he rounded his desk. "You know what you need to do."

"Sir, you can't just leave us -- " Hermione yelled. He was already gone.

And for once, she wished he'd stayed.

Hermione looked across at Draco, as he prepared his ingredients. He moved with precision, and she remembered distantly how she'd admired those hands.

It'd been almost a month.

They worked in silence, and she expected him to break the tension. She wanted him to waltz over and lay across the table, or wink at her, and they'd fall into their old habits. She wanted more than anything for him to slide over to her, to play with her thigh during class, and to have him whisper against her ear.

But they worked in silence.

It wasn't until they got to the last step for that evening, when a handful of moondust would be added, to cure over the next week, that she trusted herself to speak.

"Can you be honest with me?" Hermione said, barely over the sound of her cauldron.

Draco continued to crush his moonstone, and made no effort to acknowledge her.

"Are you pleased with yourself, that you finished the set?"

Hermione flinched as Draco slapped his knife onto the table. He didn't move, not that she could see, but it was _something_ out of him. She was owed that, wasn't she?

"Ah, so it was that." She laughed, though there was no joy in it. "I'm such an idiot. I thought you actually cared about me, but..."

Draco bent to get something from his bag. She assumed it was an attempt to avoid her eye and to save himself from her.

"I'm surprised you didn't at least use me for sex first. Seems like the thing to do," she said, her tone casual. "Though I suppose I wasn't worth the time. It took you so long to even get me halfway there, I suppose you're too busy for all that."

She didn't mean it, not really, but he ignored her otherwise. She had said sweet greetings to him, and she'd asked how he was. He seemed immune to her kindness.

And so she went to what would work.

Draco resurfaced with a vial. He examined it before he drank it, and tossed the empty glass at the bin nearby. The glass shattered against the wall and rained down onto the floor. Hermione's gaze snapped up, to glare him down. Her fists bunched, though she resumed her angle.

"You had me for a little while, I admit. You lied about giving me Order intel twice, to convince me to be alone with you in your expensive mansions, and you used your best material -- showing me memories, trying to get sympathy, or... Or forgiveness, but you still didn't get me. Not completely. That must feel awful, hm?"

Draco let out a shaky breath, as he lobbed his handful of moonstone powder into his cauldron. He gathered his books and supplies into his satchel.

And he remained silent.

"Was any of it real to you?" She swallowed, hard. "Or was it all an act? Just to get laid-- "

"Hermione," Draco shot her a dark look, his eyes deep purple around them.

"Oh no, don't bother with that, I'm _Granger_ to you, aren't I?"

Draco's gaze softened, and she felt awful, but he hadn't given her anything when she was nice. Snape's words bounced in her mind again, about how she'd make people bleed out from how she pulled them apart to understand them. But he wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't deign to acknowledge her, and so she had to do this, she _had_ to. There was something to be said for patience, and the importance of doing _nothing_...

But that was bullshit.

"It wasn't an act."

"Come now Malfoy, we aren't _dating_ anymore, and we aren't friends, so why spare my feelings?" Hermione tipped her head, as she got to her feet. "Just be honest with me, why'd you do it?" She brushed her moonstone into her cauldron, the heat radiated up through her body.

"I love you."

Hermione felt her eyes wobble in her head, as she tried to focus on anything. She stared at him, as he worried on the spot. He looked so sick and thin, and she'd somehow missed that. He was falling apart before her eyes, as she saw the silent tears, and how his hands shook. He crumbled, forward, against her, his body wracked with tears.

And she held him, like an idiot.

She wished she could gather up her words back into her mouth, to undo her bullying for a reaction. She hadn't meant it, any of it, but he wouldn't _talk_ to her, he was being such a prick. He deserved it, and for all she knew, it was the truth. She felt tears drop down her cheeks, into her robes, as he broke against her. He had been so strong and confident at Halloween, and now he felt like he'd lost what little mass he'd gained after the war.

A breakdown couldn't undo everything, but there was more underneath his absence than family matters. Or, they were deeper than she'd been told.

"I'm sorry," he said, against her throat. "For everything."

"What do you mean?" Hermione frowned.

Draco's throat wobbled, as he drew back, to gasp for air between his sobs. Draco rubbed at his face, as he looked her over.

"Please, just say it."

"I'm a Horcrux, Hermione," he exhaled, his breath shaky. "I'm the Horcrux Voldemort's been after."

* * *

Hermione and Draco were seated in the Prefect's bathroom, with their backs against the tiled wall. They had left their potions to simmer in the dungeons, and made their way up to the Boris the Bewildered statue on the Fifth floor. Ginny had given Hermione the password, to cheer her up about Draco. It seemed strange to now use it with him, in silence.

Draco had his shirt untucked and his buttons half done. Hermione had stripped her vest and had her calves in the water. Their feet dangled into the bath, though they had laid their robes on a bench by the entrance.

Hermione stared, endlessly, at the stained glass windows with merfolk inlaid on them. She worried at a sore inside her cheek, that she'd chewed into existence in her stress over the past few weeks. She had expected Draco to vanish into his lifestyle from before, elevated and too busy for her, for school.

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked, her voice soft. It bounced around the tiled room, and he took a while to respond. Long enough for the bubbles to die down, and the water to go lukewarm. Hermione shifted to adjust some taps, and she waved her hand to reheat the water.

"It's been... Since he died." Draco adjusted against the wall, his head dropped back and his gaze fixed to the ceiling. "I passed out, after my family and I got away. And I had a dream, about him."

Hermione's mouth was dry.

"He asked if I thought I could survive in a world that I wasn't at the top of; asked how I planned to resume life after the war."

"Did he ask you if he could..?"

"I don't think he meant to do it." Draco frowned. "Snape thinks he did it by mistake, and that he didn't even really know he'd done it. But after a few weeks... The dreams started."

Hermione hugged her knees. She stared at the surface of the water, as his words flooded her. "That's why you thought he'd go after me?"

Draco swallowed hard. "He _told_ me he was going to go after you. After the wedding, when you left -- he spoke to me." He worried his lips, his throat tense. "The eight witches were a warning; eight Horcruxes, I suppose, eight lives... With you as an end goal, because of how close you were to me."

Hermione blinked in the dark, as her skin went cold.

"I went with Snape, to..." He worked his tongue in his dry mouth, as he fidgeted with his hands. "To try to fix it, the past few weeks. I didn't think I'd come back. I wasn't meant to survive."

Hermione looked at him, furious. "You went on a suicide mission?"

"I don't want to -- don't make me talk about it, please, please Hermione," Draco smacked his head against the wall behind him, repeatedly, and Hermione had to grab him to stop. "Fuck." 

"You should have just told me all this-- "

"I'm not meant to!" Draco tore out several loose tiles from the floor, though the edges made his fingers bleed. "I've fucked up, I shouldn't have told you any of this." He tossed them at the wall opposite and they shattered.

"If I'd known, I could have helped."

"Helped with what? Hermione, there's one way I get out of this -- " he smiled, manic, as he shook his head. "I wish I'd died, Sixth year. Before everything got complicated, before -- "

Hermione scooted closer, to kiss him.

She expected him to remain limp against her, or to push her away. Instead, he became the same man that had pulled her thighs apart on Halloween, and the same man who'd sucked bruised across her collarbone. And for that, she was thankful and terrified, as she melted into him, aware of how gold his touch was, and of the deep black marks flecked with silver.

Hermione scrunched her fingers into his hair, as he yanked her onto his lap. She didn't fall into the same trap as the Library, where she broke contact to speak.

Instead, he did.

"We can't do this."

"I lied, you get two chances."

Draco gave her a quizzical look before he caught on. He shook his head, as he tried to encourage her off. Instead, her hips rocked down against his, and he let out the most pleasant moan she'd ever heard.

He rolled her hips once, twice, and she moved alongside him with eager motions. One hand weaved into the nape of her neck while the other forced her hips into a slow, deliberate rotation.

She could smell soap and jasmine and her own excitement, brought on by how he moved against her. She felt too warm beside the steam of the bath, and in her uniform.

"You can't run away anymore," Hermione said against his lips. "If he wants you, he had to get through me."

Draco gasped against her lips, as her hand trailed between them. She pressed the flat of her hand against him, through his slacks, and blushed a brilliant red as he moaned again.

She felt the licks of pride against her ego as she rubbed him, light at first, until he strained for more. She watched, fascinated as he writhed beneath her. She'd never felt so powerful as she did now, her lips kissed red and her hand against his cock.

She should feel embarrassed but it was too intoxicating to ignore. She scooted back, just enough, to see what he'd do.

"Had I known pity would get me a handjob -- "

"Shut the fuck up," Hermione exhaled, as she rolled her eyes. "It isn't pity and you know it."

Hermione jumped as his hand settled between her thighs, as his index finger dragged one long line along her panties, to hook them aside right after.

His touch bolstered her confidence, as she helped him tug at his zip. She fumbled, her thighs shaking as he toyed around and against her panties. He seemed hesitant to do much else, or he was an asshole.

She was undecided.

"I thought you'd hate me," he said, against her throat. "If you knew."

"It's not your fault," she stilled her hand, which had been stroking his erection through his briefs. The thought of the action proved more intimidating than the action itself. Especially given how Draco coaxed her with his fingers, to places she'd only ever been with him.

It wasn't a debt and she didn't feel pressured, but she felt it was fair, to give him the same touch back. She was clumsy and anxious, even as her fingertips found too-soft skin. But he was hard beneath that, a strange combination that surprised her.

Then again she'd had little experience past kisses and strokes through clothes.

"You don't have to -- "

Hermione took him in her hand, and strokes once, twice, and she reveled in the moans that followed. She felt quite proud, though she paused to spit on her hand as she'd read that it helped and -- she had read a great many things.

And the appreciative moans from Draco that fell like a prayer from his lips spurred her on. She smiled into the crook of his neck, as his hand stilled against her, and she realized she was giving a handjob to Draco in the Prefect Bathroom.

She kept pace with him and allowed him to adjust her grip a few times. He did it gently and without snark, given he was stuck between panting and moaning. She strained against him, aware of what came next in a strange way.

She thought if how Draco had touched her on Halloween, and how his fingers had felt. She thought if how easy it would be, to pull aside her panties, to take it past all this --

But she wasn't ready for that, nor did she want to fuck on the floor of the Prefect's Bathroom.

Instead, she nipped a path along his collarbone and smiled as he dug his fingers into her hips.

They'd talk, later.

She kept pace, and did all the things that he'd done for her. She kissed his throat, and smiled into his skin, and ignored how waiflike he'd become, and the darkness beneath his eyes. He was still beautiful in a way she'd not been able to quantify, between inhuman and ethereal, made even starker with the flashes of silver beneath black bruises.

"Oh fuck, Hermione, don't -- "

Draco's hips snapped in a way that scared Hermione, until she felt something hot slam into her chin and her throat. She was terrified she'd done something wrong, until she swiped it and realized he'd come.

Oh.

She looked at her hand and at him, for confirmation and praise, perhaps even constructive criticism. He breathed her name, over and over, and shivered beneath her. Once he settled, he slow blinked at her, as if surprised he was here in the first place. And he laughed, with an apologetic tilt to his brow as he examined her.

"Was that okay? I've not done that before, but..?" She asked, unsure what to do with her hand. She stared at it, and then at him, unsure if it was rude to immediately find a towel. She leaned into her personal curiosity and did as he had. She sucked at her finger, the one that had his come on it. It was strange, salty and musky in the way human things were, and she had heard plenty of girls discuss it, so -- 

Draco yanked her head, to kiss her as he had before. His fingers resumed their idle path, against her panties, as his fingers hooked beneath cotton.

As Hermione nodded, she both regretted and relished it. It was far easier to be in control and enjoy it when you were the one enacting the pleasure.

But to receive it? 

She was tight against him, both her posture and her cunt, as she'd not thought to touch herself since he had last. She'd been too miserable and stressed, and she felt all that wrap around his fingers as he cradled her close. She reduced to a panting mess in seconds, as he worked her with none of the coyness from Hallow's Eve, and she blinked back the white stars in her eyes.

"Can't believe you licked my come off your fingers," he said against her ear and she wished he wouldn't.

Hermione parted her lips to chew him out, but he slammed his fingers with a particular angle and she could only whine. He seemed to plan that, given the snide giggle he let out.

"And in the Prefect's Bathroom?" He smiled into her hair, the light stubble of his beard against her throat. He wasn't hairy by any means, but it still scratched her in the nicest way.

"Oh, shut up," she exhaled, to mind her tone and stop herself from screaming.

"Probably for the best you cut the Library short," he bit along her ear and continued to brush against the wad of nerves that made her tense and loosen all at once. it was a place she couldn't strike herself, and when she did, she was too nervous to pursue it. It was good, too good, and it rendered her twitchy and useless. But he had no issue in striking it, over and over, with the curl of his fingers, as he went from one to two, and it got even _worse_ as he tipped her hips with his free hand.

Hermione made a sound, which he took as encouragement given how he doubled the pace. She was angled so she had to put her hands behind her, to rest her weight.

"I'd have gotten you to recite the goblin wars with my cock in your mouth," he drew back, to watch her react. 

And she did, against her morals. She was as red as her tie, which he snatched from around her neck. He tugged it open, one-handed, but only loosened it enough to yank to over her head.

"Do you mind?"

"What?" Hermione shivered against him before he stopped altogether. She pouted until he tied her wrists behind her back. She could slip her hands out easily, but she got his angle.

But she completely did not get his angle, either.

"Excuse me -- "

Draco began to pop her buttons, innocence feigned on his face. "Yes?"

A button popped.

Hermione wiggled, as she tried to regain friction.

Three buttons.

"Just relax," his breath pooled against her, cooler than the heat of the bath. His hand slid beneath her shirt, to tease at her chest. The flat of his palm got the shape of her, and when she moaned, he resumed his pace from before.

And she cried.

Not in a bad way, not in any particular way. Her eyes just welled up, as his fingers pumped into her, and she smiled and nodded through the faint tears.

"All good, my love?" He asked against her ear, as his hands stilled.

"Yes, yes, very good -- "

And he resumed, patient and eager, as she inched higher and higher. He kissed at her chest, though her shirt and bra remained in place. He's pushed them enough to find purchase, and she just needed --

Something.

His mouth was against her chest, somewhere between cool and hot, as he fucked her with his fingers. She lost any composure, as her wrists strained against her tie. He kept his thumb tucked into the loop of it, while his other hand continued to move inside her, more, more than she needed, and he lapped away at the curve of her breasts. She wasn't as shapely as Emily or Lavender, but she had never worried about such things.

It seemed even sillier to worry about it as he stared up at her, ice-blue eyes met with honey brown, and he winked. The weeks apart melted away, as she edged, closer, and then everything smelled of jasmine and sex.

And then it came all at once, as he became slower but more methodical, and as he watched her face. She was blurry-eyed and lost in the steam. It wasn't as wet this time. She was privately thankful, as she didn't want to cause a mess all over Draco.

(Though she doubted he'd complain.)

He kissed her, once, twice, a smattering of light kisses. He looked more tired than before, but she didn't care. She cradled his face in her hands, and kissed him deeply. They sneaked back out of the bathroom, hand in hand, after a few quick cleaning charms. He'd suggested a bath, but she'd been too nervous for all that.

Instead, they sneaked back into their dorms, and kissed all the way down to the fork in the dorms.

She almost went with him, to keep him close, but she allowed him space.

As she crawled into bed, late that Friday evening, she had to smile over the fact she had him back. Even if there was a chance she'd lose him again, at least she had more of the puzzle, and more of a chance to help him. She should be mad at him, she should be furious, for how he vanished and how he abandoned her.

But she fell asleep with a private smile on her face.

Ginny had been right, about using the bathroom to get past her stress over Draco.

* * *

_ **November 21st, 1998.** _

"Can't I just enjoy being back at school for a few days before -- "

"You've been back since Monday," Hermione pushed her hair over her shoulder, as she laid out several essay topics for Draco that she'd taken down. She had been keeping track of all the work he'd missed out on while he'd been away. 

They'd have to talk, about what it meant for him to be a Horcrux, but first, he had a Charms essay to work on.

They sat in the Library, and Hermione allowed him to hold her hand as he did his recommended reading.

And she refused to let go of it, for anything.


	42. between occlumency and legilimency.

_ **November 21st, 1998.** _

"I knew something was fishy about you and Potter -- "

"Shh, shut up," Hermione pressed her finger to Draco's lips, which he licked. She frowned up at him, though the shadows ruined any hope she had of being intimidating.

Draco arched a brow down at her, his back pressed against the uneven stone of the dungeons. She was in his arms, the Marauder's Map held beneath some faint light. He had them cloaked in his robe, though his eyes were greedy as they examined the map. And how they'd wander from the magical marvel to her, as if she were more interesting than a map that helped her and her friends in so many sticky situations.

"Seems unfair," he whispered around her fingers, as he bent down to sneak kisses to her cheeks and temple. "The Inquisitional Squad had to use pure wit, while you cheated."

"It's hardly cheating," Hermione bit back, as her head bobbed with the weight of each kiss. "We merely used our resources wisely."

"Ooh, you're becoming a proper little Slytherin."

Hermione sent him a withering look, as she breezed through the floors of the map. She flipped the pages and flapped the edges. She couldn't see Snape anywhere.

"Remind me, love, what are we doing exactly?"

"I told you," she tossed her thick braid over her shoulder, which flicked Draco on the nose. "We're going to check Snape's office."

"Yes, but, why?"

She scrunched and folded the map back up. If Snape wasn't on the grounds, they would be able to inspect his office with zero issue. 

"He has my ring, and my ring is the only way we can find wherever that Voldemort facsimile vanished to." Her brow jumped as if to ask if that was enough of a reason.

Draco made a little sound, like a growl, and she swatted him. He caught her wrists and tugged her close, so she was flush against him. He had regained some of the weight he'd lost in his absence. He hadn't told her much more about it, except that he'd almost died during his outing. She melted into the kiss, stupidly, but regained her composure as she heard footsteps.

"Stop, stop, shh," her breath caught in her throat, and Draco nuzzled into her throat.

"Don't say words like 'facsimile' then -- "

Hermione pressed her lips to his, to shut him up.

The clack of heels continued, and she peeked past the hem of his sleeve. It was Phillip Meyers, with a Slytherin Prefect she failed to recognize. She only knew it was Phillip because of the Head Boy badge that gleamed in the dark.

"Can't believe _he_ got Head Boy," Draco sneered beneath his breath. The words poured hot and wet against her throat, as he was crouched close beside her.

And they stood right outside Selwyn's office, as they chatted about the upcoming Slytherin versus Gryffindor game. Hermione could tell it was a Quidditch conversation as her eyes began to glaze over by habit. She shook her head, and wandlessly, wordlessly, shot a hex that spawned boils all over Meyers' face. Draco encased them in the black of his robes, as they crowed into the shadows of a snake statue.

"Phil!" The girl cried, and Hermione lilted her head, to listen for their footsteps. It was a scramble at first, and then they began to beat a trail towards the closest stairwell.

"_Hermione_," Draco dragged out each syllable, his fingers threaded through his white-blonde hair. "You've spent far too much time with me, haven't you?"

"Oh, he had it coming," she dismissed, as she thought of Ginny, who'd spoken lowly of the boy. She yanked Draco after her by the hand, as they headed to the office. She didn't know how long they'd have to search Snape's office, but she needed to make use of the time. It wasn't too difficult to break into the room, which surprised her.

But then she saw how bare it was, as if no one lived here at all.

In contrast to Ayers' room which had been full of books and life, she felt like she'd stepped into a morgue. There were large stone doors embedded into the walls, which she didn't want to even go near. There was a simple black desk with silver handles. A bookshelf with two books sat behind it, and a rickety wooden chair. Two rooms split off from this one, a bathroom and a bedroom.

At least it'd be a quick search.

"Try not to touch anything," she said, as she waved her hands at the desk. Each drawer popped out, though there was nothing but parchment and ink in each.

Draco took to the stone doors on the walls. From what Hermione could see, it was a series of potions ingredients, some alive, some dead. The sounds of animals skittering and panicked sounded, and she decided she didn't much want to know how Snape restocked his potions supplies.

She kept the Marauder's Map held aloft, to watch the office, inside and out. She continued her search, and found nothing. Even less than nothing; she was more confused than ever.

Draco approached, a sickly tint of yellow to his complexion. She didn't want to ask.

"I've not seen him wear them," she tapped her finger on her chin, as she narrowed her eyes at the six bottles of ink on the table. 

"How do you know he took them?"

"I went to see you, when you left," she looked at Draco, who'd come to stand in front of her. "And... There's a gap, in my memory. I remember that I saw him, and that he -- that he was rather cruel."

Draco's gaze froze, where it'd been in an affectionate roam over her features. "Cruel?"

"You know how Snape can be," Hermione smiled, weak, as she shook her head. "No crueler than usual, just -- Just how he always is."

"And how am I always, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione rotated like a statue on a spinning wheel. She came face to face with Selwyn, who'd entered his office.

He smiled, mild and bored, as he looked over the pair. "This should be amusing; why are you in my _private quarters_?" Snape lifted his head, to look down his nose at them. He had blonde hair and fine nose, but all she could see was a greasy, hook-nosed jerk.

Hermione looked at the map, and then at Snape, and he was invisible on it. But that was impossible. How could he vanish from the map? Even Crouch, while disguised as Moody, had appeared in his true form.

And her eyes slid to the ring, which glinted bronze and diamond-decorated.

"We were going to fuck on your bed," Draco said, in a bored voice.

Selwyn's smile rotted on his face, absolute disgust ripened in its place.

"She's a freak, sir, and the heart wants what it wants!"

"Get out," Selwyn said, in a level voice that gave no room for interpretation. "_Now_."

"Oh, not interested in a show? You're missing out -- "

The bottle of ink shattered against the wall behind Draco, as the pair sped out. Hermione tripped on her robes, but Draco kept her level. She felt her heartbeat in her ears, as she wanted to vomit.

"His ring," she panted. "I don't know how, but -- he can't -- " Her eyes flickered, as she thought back to Draco's house when she'd tried to read his mind. When it'd failed. It wasn't his natural talent with Occlumency; his ring was the opposite to Legilimency, it blocked magical invasions, and controlled the truth.

That had to be it, hadn't it?

By the time they found a broom closet on the First Floor to hide in, they were both out of breath.

And the mortification hit.

"You -- told Snape -- we wanted to -- to -- " Hermione breathed, labored and horrified all at once.

"He hates people being affectionate," Draco was leaned against the wall behind him, as he smirked at the ceiling. He wasn't as winded, and Hermione felt embarrassed; she wasn't meant for sprints. Draco probably exercised all the time, the git.

"I cannot," Hermione's mouth failed to clarify, but the point was made.

"It worked, didn't it?"

They laughed, Draco more amused than Hermione. She was trapped in a stasis of terror. She sank to the floor, beside Draco. He'd sank to sit beside an overturned bucket, with his knees drawn up and his elbows on either. She willed the map blank and tucked it into her robes.

"We're going to get a detention for that," Hermione grit her teeth.

"Oh well," Draco waved a hand. "It was worth it for the look on his face." He rolled his head against the wall, to wink down at her.

And she blushed because it was a habit.

* * *

_ **November 24th, 1998.** _

Sunday passed, and then Monday -- no detention and no mention of their invasion of Selwyn's office. He avoided their eyes and their presence, and Hermione had to laugh about it.

Only Draco could get away with such a thing.

Tuesday flashed by, punctuated by double Defense Against the Dark Arts. Their class was dedicated to shielding charms, and Hermione spent the majority of the class throwing thumb tacks at Draco as he flicked them at the bulletin board at the back of the classroom. Miss Proudfoot watched and clapped, as she sat cross-legged on a table beside them.

"Such precision!"

The rest of the class tried and failed, not at the charm itself, but with direction. The room was a minefield of tiny paper bits, as they'd not been trusted. But Draco was exemplary at the shielding charm. It was like an art form, and Hermione blushed beneath her thick hair as she admired him.

As class ended, Draco snagged her waist and drew her close.

"Hogsmeade?"

And she agreed, despite the Transfiguration essay they'd been assigned and the Charms notes she had to categorize. And he knew what a big deal that was to her, with the bright smile on his face as the way he kissed her softly as they parted outside their dorms.

Hermione bumped into Emily as she entered their shared dorm, and Emily smiled at her.

"You seem pleased," Emily tipped her head, to look past Hermione. She wasn't in search of anything, not that Hermione could tell. Perhaps just an out, from the conversation she'd started.

"I suppose I am," Hermione brushed her hair behind her ear, which flashed the silver watch that Emily and Draco had gifted her. "Have you been well?"

(The watch was really just Draco's present, she gathered.)

"Oh, of course," Emily hand-waved, at nothing specific. "So peachy-pleased, you know, just... Living, enjoying being single, honestly, boys are gross, such a waste of time."

"Right," Hermione smiled a strange smile, and side-stepped the bobbed girl.

"I'm great," she added. "Just... Amazing, honestly."

Hermione went over to her trunk, to dig out something to wear. She didn't have date clothes, per se, but she thought it'd be nice to try at least a little bit.

"Does Draco ever like, mention me, or like -- I don't want it to be weird, seeing as we're friends, and he's my ex -- "

"Don't do this Emily," Hermione said, her hands busy with her clothes.

"Well, we were dating." Emily paused, to cross her arms. "I mean, we kissed a few times, and we had sex, you know."

Hermione turned on her knees, to look up at Emily. "Well, that's not _dating_, now is it."

Emily blinked.

"You're a beautiful girl, Emily. I implore you to move on." Hermione resumed her search, as she pulled out a simple blue dress. She smiled, her cheeks plump with pride as she stood up.

"I have moved on!"

"Good for you," Hermione drawled; she had been spending too much time with Draco, she felt his venom dripping from her tongue. "I encourage you to move on a further few steps."

"Oh? Do you?"

Hermione tossed the dress onto her bed, to yank off her robes. She stopped, to look at Emily, dead behind her eyes. "Either you willingly move on, or I assist you in that matter."

Pansy and Daphne, who'd been cuddled on Daphne's bed, sat up. They looked like hyenas that had scented blood.

"Is that a threat?" Emily said, her chin lifted and her throat strained.

"A promise," Hermione smiled, her eyes narrowed as she examined Emily. "P_recious souls who worked too hard, for what little would come their way;_ that was how the Sorting Hat defined Hufflepuff, in how they'd throw themselves into a lost cause, and to claim their unending kindness as a strength. But it's not _really_ kindness if you do it to gain favor, or to manipulate others." Hermione began to undo her shirt, unaffected by being half-naked around other girls. She'd been in a dorm for years, and changed around Ron and Harry plenty of times.

Frankly, she didn't give a fuck about a lot of things, and certainly not some upstart _Hufflepuff_, out to intimidate her over her own boyfriend.

"I'm not... I don't manipulate people," Emily said, her voice softer.

"Being sugary sweet only to lash out at people when they don't behave to your liking _is_ manipulation," Hermione tugged on her dress. It was knee-length and flared from the waist, with a simple princess neckline. She knew that type, as it was the type she always got for her formalwear. "At least Slytherins admit when they want to see you dead." She saw how Pansy watched her, enthralled by her cruelty. The girl even winked her way, and Hermione had to hold back a laugh. 

"I don't want you dead!" Emily pouted.

"I know," Hermione dug through her toiletries, and pulled out her hair clip from Ginny. "But if I happened to die, and you happened to be there for Draco, well, that'd be just fine."

Emily's jaw bobbed as she watched Hermione, who stepped closer.

"I think we could be friends, Emily," Hermione pulled her hair up, and dropped her chin, to affect innocence. "If only you'd leave my boyfriend alone. Are we clear?"

Emily swallowed visibly, as she looked at the floor beside her. "You used to be nice," she said, so soft Hermione almost missed it.

"No, I wasn't." Hermione smiled, in a tart way, and slipped on her ballet flats. "I've always gone for what I wanted, sought knowledge and defended those close to me; I'd say I'm far more transparent than you've ever been."

"Fuck Granger, just kill her already," Pansy cackled, as she played with Daphne's collarbone.

"No, no, drag it out, I want to see her cry -- " 

"Oh, shut up you two," Emily tossed her hair, as she looked over to her bed.

"I'm not being mean to you, Emily, I'm being honest," Hermione rolled her eyes, as she went for the door. "I implore you to do the same."

And she left, sure she'd return to her bed in flames. And part of her hoped that was the case, so she could have an excuse to bunk with Draco. Perhaps that was a spiteful thought, but she was exhausted from Emily's pettiness. She found Draco upstairs, immersed in a book on Muggle politics, and she felt her heart skip in her chest.

"Ready, my love?"

"You sound ridiculous when you call me that, you know," Hermione crimped her smile before it formed.

"It sends a message," he marked his page with a silver bookmark. "That you're mine."

"That's so archaic." Hermione leaned into his touch. He pulled her close by the hip, and she feigned reluctance. But she curled into him as he closed the gap, her hands at his chest and his mouth by her ear.

"It's a little fun though, isn't it?" He worried his nose into the space behind her ear, which made his voice all the worse.

(That was, better.)

"Being owned? I should think not."

"A shame," he exhaled, hot breath against her cheek. "I take incredibly good care of everything that's mine."

"And what if I don't want to be taken care of?" Hermione said, her brow raised and her smile slight.

Draco strained against his need to take her point off the rails, and she could see him align himself again. He exhaled through his teeth, which were straight and white. Her parents would admire them, she knew. Being a dentist's daughter gave you a strange perspective on teeth.

They left the dorms, though she gathered herself into the crook of his arm. She'd left in such a distinct hurry, she'd forgotten her coat. It wasn't so bad at first, as the crisp afternoon air bit down on her edges. By the time she got to Hogsmeade, she was tucked beneath Draco's arm for protection more than affection.

"My mother keeps coats at our house," he said, his voice airy. "We could fetch you one."

"You could do the gentlemanly thing and give me your coat," her teeth chattered.

"And freeze?" He shook his head, as he tugged it off. He draped it over her, and she did her best not to stare him down like a hungry wolf.

"No, no, I'm fine -- "

Draco steered them towards his home, despite her protests. It was a short walk before they were met with the beautiful facade of the stonework home. It had the signature silver and black iron fences, with black oaks. She had to wonder if it was a requirement for their properties to match, but she hadn't had a chance.

Instead, she was inside, faced by Mrs. Malfoy.

Hermione snapped her gaze up to Draco, who looked anywhere except for her.

"Hello darling," she tossed her head, a glass of white wine in one hand and a fine green silk dress constricted to her form. "We have much to discuss."

Dinner was laid out in the dining area, which was attached to the kitchen. This house was as grand as the others but on a much smaller scale. She could breathe here, and see life. The pillows were askew and the paintings had less disapproving ancestors. And yet Hermione was trapped in a feeling of annoyance, as Draco failed to inform her this was a date with his mother.

It seemed rather important to mention.

"Where to begin," Mrs. Malfoy dragged her index finger around the rim of her glass, which refilled as if by magic. She gestured, and their glasses filled as well. "I promise, I won't need much of your time."

"Right," Hermione looked at Draco, who had his hand bunched on the table. "What, um... What's there to discuss?"

"The book you found, that may be a good place to begin." Mrs. Malfoy pushed her long strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, which flowed like oil across her. "It was one of the few relics we -- rather, _Lucius_ insisted on keeping, in the wake of the Ministry investigations."

"But they searched your home, how did you have a say in what you kept?"

Mrs. Malfoy smiled, in a kind way. "Dear girl, they found what we wanted them to find. If you _give_ them a plate of brownies, they're not going to miss one. They felt very clever, finding things, and so we let them."

Hermione worried a napkin in her hands, as she watched Mrs. Malfoy down her wine. It had been her third glass since they'd arrived.

"What do you think that book was?"

"A link to the Dark Lord?" She said, her voice small.

"Close, pet." She downed the wine, and Hermione wanted to reach across, to take the glass from her. "You see... My husband... My... My wonderful husband..." She smiled, in a way that showed no joy. "He... He secured his place with the Dark Lord you see, he promised him a place to work, a place to... To be, you know, our home," the glass broke in her hands, though it snapped at the stem. She tossed the glass away, her fingers bracketed against her temples. "He didn't tell me, of course, but he cannot lie to me, and once Draco told me of the book -- of _that_ book -- that is, I knew of it, but he'd told me he'd... He said he'd destroyed it."

Hermione wracked her brain; she'd not thought of the book much, not since the man had appeared. That had taken precedence.

"_A willing vessel becomes a second skin, for your ideals, may live on while you are dead; but to live on forever, all one must do is find life within their Perfect Heir." _Mrs. Malfoy recited, her lips quivering. "Lucius promised Draco to the Dark Lord, to spare himself."

Hermione frowned at the black oak table in front of her. The book had gone in circles, about how the victim would be rendered a husk, to be possessed and piloted. "He tried that once, with Ginny, but it failed -- "

"Because that girl was Pure-blooded, certainly, but she didn't have His blood in her," Mrs. Malfoy looked at Draco, and the Dark Mark. "He didn't give Draco the mark to initiate him; he was setting himself up an exit strategy."

"How do you..."

Mrs. Malfoy made a face, bereft.

"The Black sisters were born with innate skills, of Occlumency and Legilimency; Bellatrix leaned into Legilimency, while Andromeda leaned into Occlumency," Draco looked to his mother as if to ask permission. She waved a hand, which shook before her mouth. "My mother has both."

Hermione looked to Mrs. Malfoy, a woman who'd drunk too much and looked red and miserable. "What does that mean?"

"Exactly how it sounds," Mrs. Malfoy pushed her lithe fingers through her hair, as she hiccuped. "It's not something I... I flaunt, you understand, but I helped Lucius, and I helped the Dark Lord, I was -- " she rubbed her eyes, as she leaned on the table. "I wanted to protect Draco... And I failed."

"You lied to Voldemort, about Harry," Hermione said, her voice faint.

Mrs. Malfoy peeked past her arm, which shook. She had watery eyes and a red face, as she pushed herself up from the table. "I lied to him about many things; I hated him. Hated him," she repeated, with venom. "I don't care, about -- about blood, about wealth, I don't, I can't, after all I've seen, after everything my family went through, I can't -- " she shook, and Draco gathered her into his arms. She cuddled into her son's chest, as she sobbed. "I failed, I failed, I could have done more, I needed to, I -- "

"Mother, please," Draco soothed her, his hand through her hair. He tucked his chin onto her head.

"He's going to -- to take you, Draco, he's going to tear you out of your body, to steal you away from me," she cried, and Hermione couldn't watch.

She stared at the plates of food that had gone untouched. She wished she had an appetite.

"You have to help us, Hermione," she swallowed, hard, though the tears kept flowing.

"I want to," she looked to Draco, who seemed lost for words. "I don't know how, though."

"We need to," Mrs. Malfoy began, her voice shaky. "We need to do... Something... We need to."

"I promise, I'll do whatever I can to protect him," Hermione reassured her.

And Mrs. Malfoy bawled, as she groped for Draco's neck. She cried into him, lost to the world.

"Sleep, perhaps?"

Mrs. Malfoy looked bone-tired, beneath the glamour that surrounded her. Her robes were fine, but her hands were shaky. The wine had reddened her complexion, and her breathing was erratic. Draco helped her to her feet, and the vanished upstairs.

She hadn't a clue what she needed to do, save for finding the ring. Perhaps if they destroyed the book, they could destroy the link between Draco and Voldemort. 

And Hermione sat, until Draco reappeared.


	43. coping for the hopeless.

_ **November 24th, 1998.** _

Hermione picked through their abandoned dinner, which had decadent desserts and a creamy mushroom sauce that was to die for. It seemed wasteful to leave all the meats and vegetables untouched, but she hadn't much of an appetite. She managed to eat a baked potato and some cheese in their absence, but felt too nervous to eat more.

Mrs. Malfoy struck her as a proud woman, but it was clear how the war had worn her down. The same had happened to her son, which Hermione had witnessed first-hand.

She dug her short nails into the grooves in the wood as she waited for Draco to come back.

And he did, eventually.

Alone.

"Apologies," he said, though she didn't know why he'd apologized.

"It's fine," Hermione smiled. "You don't have to apologize."

Draco gave her a tight smile, as he stilled his breathing. "I hadn't realized she'd been drinking."

Hermione brushed at her fringe, which was overgrown to his chin. She'd had them, a while ago, but it'd gotten away from her.

Many things had, it seemed.

"She likes you, you know."

Hermione looked at him, confused. It was hard to picture Mrs. Malfoy with any affection towards her, even after the past several weeks.

"She hated Pansy," he smiled, in a fond way. "Used to make fun of her every time she came over for dinner. Said she ate like a pig."

"That's awful."

Draco shrugged, as he tucked his hands into the crooks of his elbows. He stood by the bottom of the stairs, as he glanced up towards where he'd left his mother.

"Did she always..?" Hermione trailed off, her attention fixed on his shoes.

He went still, as he listened out for her.

A soft voice called out, but it was met with another. Hermione took his nonchalance as an indication it was fine. They had to have House Elves here, and Tripley seemed to go wherever Mrs. Malfoy went.

"She started around... Fourth year, when the Dark Lord returned," his throat tensed, in a way that worried her. "Got worse in my Fifth year, but I hardly saw her. Hard to know when it happened, if there was any signs. Then, after my father -- after_ that,_ Sixth year, it was rare to see her sober."

Hermione frowned, as she leaned her weight on her arms. She was still at the table, as she felt overwhelmed with the cracked visage of the Malfoy matriarch.

"I thought she'd stopped." His eyes were vacant, as he stared at the wall. As if he had been so stupid, to accept her break as a genuine change.

"It's not your fault," Hermione said, her voice small.

Draco smiled at her, in a vague way. "Sorry for this; all of it."

"Please, don't be sorry," Hermione got up, to walk over to him. He didn't move to meet her, or to step away. He seemed broken, or unsure. "The war affected everyone differently."

Draco remained leaned against the wall, distant while so close.

"Your father," Hermione rolled her lips between her teeth. "Promised you to Voldemort?"

Draco's smile widened, and she hated it. This was nothing to smile about, as her blood pumped cold and her stomach clenched.

"Do you..." She inhaled, sharply. "Do you have visions?"

His gaze fell to the floor, and she pulled at his chin to correct it. He met her eye, ice against warmth, and she wanted him to be honest.

For once.

"Neville said," Hermione let out a shaky breath, which failed to soothe her nerves. "That you had dreams; nightmares, rather."

Draco maintained eye contact, albeit by her pressure on his chin.

"Was it Him?" Her voice was soft, as she pried into him.

"You know it was," he said, anger beneath his wavering tone.

"And your mother?" Her brows knitted, as she pieced it together. "Neville said that He was hurting someone, and that you begged for their safety."

But he shook his head, as much as he could with her fingers on his chin. The tense in his throat worsened, as if he were in immense pain.

"You were begging him, to let 'her' go -- who did he have?"

"You know who he had." Draco gave her a watery smile, as he cracked. He pulled her close, by her hand, then her back, and he cradled her to his chest.

He felt cold.

She found her answer in that embrace, as he clung to her like a man awash at sea. The salt came with his tears, and she held him, wordless.

Voldemort had told him that Hermione was a liability; she had to wonder when this was said to him.

Back during his Sixth year, or now?

* * *

_ **November 25th, 1998.** _

"Remember, your essays are due next week. I want an in-depth analysis on how human-centric the Centaur Wars were," Ayers gathered her long hair over one shoulder, to braid it in a loose, absent-minded way.

The class gathered their things, quills and parchment scratched against one another as they headed out for their break. Ancient Runes and Arithmacy were next, but Hermione lingered. Ayers remained curious as she watched Hermione, a half-there smile on her lips.

"Can I help you..?"

"We need to talk," she looked to Draco, who was by her elbow. "Tonight, eight o'clock, at the Shrieking Shack. Bring Sirius, I've asked Harry and Ron to come -- we, the Order, need to get a clear image of what we're doing."

Ayers looked confused, though it melted after a few seconds. "Is this you calling an official meeting?"

"We're divided," Hermione adjusted her bag, which Draco took from her without a word. He hoisted it onto his shoulder, and kept a cool gaze on Ayers. "We need to get back onto the same page, and work out what comes next."

And she left, without another word.

"I love when you get bossy," Draco hummed, his hands in his pockets.

She felt the heat rise along the back of her neck, her cheeks tinged pink.

Their classes whizzed by, and she found herself seated, cross-legged on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

Along with Sirius, Ayers, Ron and Harry were several others. Ivana and Lavender sat to one side, at home in the house, as if they were here often. Ivana had helped herself to some snacks that had been secreted away behind a fake wall, which made Hermione's brow jump. It looked like jerky, but bloodier. There was McGonagall and Snape, though he remained as Selwyn for sake of ease returning to Hogwarts.

Even Kingsley had come, as well as the Weasleys at large. Bill and Charlie seemed confused, while Fleur floated beside her husband with a serene smile. Neville and Luna sat in one corner, wide-eyed for different reasons.

"So," Hermione said, in a small voice. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice."

A round of acknowledgement made Hermione's skin crawl, as Mrs. Malfoy hung in the back corner, her posture wilted and her head dipped low.

"I'd really love for this to be a room of honesty, and of progress," she licked her lips apart, as she stood before the mass of people. "As you may or may not know -- we're afraid that Voldemort may not be... Not strictly gone."

"That's just a rumour, isn't it?" Charlie said, in an unsure voice.

Hermione shook her head, with a crisp smile. "Unfortunately, it's more reality than not. I have reason to believe that when Harry died, Voldemort didn't strictly _die_, as we believed." She rubbed at her neck, as she looked around the group. "If you recall, Quirrell was possessed by Voldemort, a part of him. When he died, the fragment left his body, and took to another form. I believe that -- " she tensed, her nails dug into her palms. "That Voldemort has merely shifted, for now, and will attempt to possess someone, to continue his plans."

"Just like that?" Kingsley said, not to challenge her, but out of fear.

"Voldemort has possessed people in the past, Ginny for one, and Harry," she looked over to both of them. Ginny was seated behind Harry, who was on the floor beside Sirius.

"He couldn't get into me completely," Ginny said, in a raw voice. She'd been crying, albeit silently. "No blood connection; possession is a blood magic thing." She added, as if a mantra to herself.

"And, I suppose the Amourdonne..." Harry looked back, up to Ayers who was seated beside Ginny. They looked like a strange, mirrored duo; like Ayers and Sirius were Lily and James reincarnated. They were darker around the edges, with more wrinkles and dark circles. But Ayers had her arms laced around Sirius's neck, and he had her forearms in either hand.

And Snape couldn't stop how he glared at them.

Ayers in particular, which struck Hermione as strange.

"This was your intent, Granger?" Snape said, bored. "To gather the Order for baseless theories?"

"It's not baseless," Hermione tossed her hair, as she stood her ground. "The book I found, the one that Voldemort gave Lucius, it spoke of how Voldemort wanted to start anew, in a new mortal body, as if he could harness an untainted soul. But it's a matter of blood," she stroked her chin, as she tried to work through her logic.

"As if someone can be wholly possessed, no will of their own," Snape snorted.

Mrs. Weasley made an ugly face at him, to which Mr. Weasley soothed her shoulder with the flat of his hand. The lounge of the Shrieking Shack felt so immensely tiny, from all the people crowed inside of it.

"Is there a point?" Lavender asked, though Ivana smoothed her hand over Lavender's head. It was comical, how Lavender was pushed down with each pet.

"For one, Harry," Hermione smiled at him, weakly. "You're not going to have to die again, or you, Ayers."

"Well, I didn't die last time, just sort of -- halfway died." Ayers shot a look at Snape, who refused to look at her. He had taken to searing Hermione with his gaze.

"But that begs the question," Hermione frowned. "Of where that sliver of his soul is currently festering. Given his appearance at the wedding, and then the Hallow's Eve charity event, it has to be something living, hasn't it?"

"Likely," Bill narrowed his eyes. "Cursed artifacts don't tend to have corporeal forms; it's more a sickness, and an aura. If he appeared, then it's likely _someone_, not _something_."

"He'll strip them of their mental faculties, and then assume their body as his own," Hermione blinked, in an unsure way. "Similar to how a Dementor's kiss will... Render a person vacant." Her gaze pivoted upward, to the attic of the Shrieking Shack.

"Hermione?" Draco touched her arm, as she stepped towards Snape.

"He's inside Selwyn, isn't he?"

Snape made a face, more confused than anything else. She didn't stop her pace, as she pointed her wand at Snape.

"Selwyn didn't receive the Kiss by mistake; it was you who arranged it. He's a stepping stone between Half-blood and Pure-blood, close enough to Voldemort's final target given Selwyn has Malfoy blood in him. But he's not Pure, ergo, not the Pure heir... He was established, as an out -- and you helped him, didn't you?"

The room's atmosphere shifted, as Ivana hissed between her teeth. She'd shown no affection towards Snape, who wore Selwyn like a second skin. They were siblings, after all, but she'd sat as far from the impostor as possible.

"I can read Severus, he's never lied to me," Mrs. Malfoy said, from the shadows.

Hermione jabbed a finger in Snape's direction, at the ring on his hand. "No, he's been lying to us this whole time -- I'll bet any money that his ring augments the reality, and prevents magical detection of locations or truths. It's Hufflepuff's ring -- there's others."

Snape's jaw worked beneath sallow skin, as he rose from the couch. "What do you suppose I had to gain in all this, Granger? Why would I help the Dark Lord, after everything -- "

"For Lily," she said, with a look towards Ayers. "For whatever part of her you think is in Ayers." Hermione lifted her chin, as she glared at the ring. "What did he promise you?"

"Enough," Snape towered over her, his jaw tight.

"I want to see Selwyn," she said, matter-of-fact.

"He's quite ill, Hermione," Ayers said, her arms still laced around Sirius. "He's never awake when I've seen him..."

The room broke into murmurs, as Hermione shrugged off permission and made a bee-line for the attic. She heard footsteps behind her, but she had the advantage of being tiny and quick. She managed to get to the top floor, and a barrier shot up behind her. It was likely a magical protection, to ensure that no one could see Selwyn without permission; and she'd tripped it. She was likely trapped on this side, but she had no clue how to get back out.

Or if she'd want to get out.

She saw Draco, Ayers and Snape behind her, pressed against the barrier. It was like frosted glass, translucent and opaque all at once. They vanished into the fog of it, as it thickened with each smack of their hands. But she was aware she had a small window of time to get her answers.

And she was aware of how sickly cold the air had become.

The doors were barred along the hallway, with debris and boards. Furniture was piled up, under half-there sheets. Torn paintings with rolling meadows were along the walls, and her stomach sank with each step. It was silent here, eerie and soundless. She couldn't hear anything except for her own footsteps and breath.

As she reached the end of the hallway, she saw the thread that would drop the ladder. It felt like ice beneath her fingertips, as she pulled it.

The attic, in contrast to downstairs, was spotless. Someone had thoroughly cleaned it up. It was untouched by the claw marks that decorated downstairs. The room was cold and lifeless, however, and she could see the figure behind a gauze curtain. She rounded it with determined strides, to reveal -- 

Snape.

Wait, _Snape_?

Hermione gawked, at the sickly man strewn in the bed. She approached, cautious as ever, her eyes blown wide as she stared Snape down. He seemed to be in a daze, beyond words, but not _lifeless_. She felt her mind crackle around the edges like ice about to break off from a glacier, as she approached with caution.

"Snape..?" She tried, her voice too light for even herself to hear. "Severus?" She tried again, her lips quivered around the unfamiliar name.

"Granger?" He looked her over, once, awash with a smile. It was pained and edged, not a proper smile. She didn't think Snape was capable of such a thing. Relief was perhaps a better way to quantify it, as his scowl relaxed. Whatever it was, it was short-lived as panic settled in. "Where is he?"

"He?" Hermione parroted, her throat tight.

The hooked-nosed man adjusted his posture, to sit up in the bed. "You have to go; go, get... Get the Order, get whomever you can -- "

"The Order's all here, downstairs, as you should be -- how did you -- " Hermione had never seen him so vulnerable and anxious, and she felt sick to her stomach. She searched his face for an answer, though his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were ringed with deep, dark circles.

If Snape was here, bed-ridden and his hair patchy, what did that _mean_?

(She knew what it meant, but it hurt to think about.)

"How long have you been here?" She approached his bedside, to check him for restraints. A few leather belts fastened his arms and legs in place, and she felt pity swell inside her.

Snape stared, wordless. As if he couldn't believe she was here, with him.

"Snape?"

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, limp against his pillow. She saw none of the man who had bullied her First year, and only the man who had bled out with Nagini's poison in his veins. "It's all my fault."

Hermione took that for what it was, her chest tight as she looked around the attic. She rushed over to the stairs she'd entered through, which had snapped back into place. She scratched at the edges of it, as she tried to force it open. They wouldn't budge, not even as she cast every counter-curse imaginable.

Once her fingers ached and her breathing became uneven, Snape cleared his throat, dry and empty.

She turned, to stare at him with breathless agony.

"He's been using you, you realize,. All of you," Snape said, his voice hollow. "The things he's learned through you alone... I can't begin to imagine."

Hermione felt her stomach flip, as she thought on her detentions with Selwyn, where he'd stared her down for hours. She thought of how he stared her down, desperate to pull apart whatever thoughts he could. She thought of how Snape had appeared after she'd been attacked, with no help offered regarding the onyx tooth she'd given him. She thought of how Selwyn had been in attendance at the Hallow's Eve ball, and how she'd mistaken the attacker in the mask for Lucius.

How her Gryffindor heart was worn like a cuff-link in the fire light. How he mocked her mind, for it's openness and ease. She blinked back tears, at the Order meeting she had called together.

What had she done?

She panicked and paced, unable to pick a place to stand. She needed to get out. She needed a way out.

The attic floor burst open, along with half the floor. Kingsley and Sirius appeared, their eyes were wild, as they clambered into the attic.

"We have to go," Sirius barked. "Now!"

The rattle of bones shook from below, as Hermione saw the black marks that had blemishes Draco. A hand print around Sirius's throat, his wrist. Kingsley seemed untouched, though he was as on edge.

"Where's Draco?" She looked at Snape, who seemed helpless.

"Not here," Sirius watched as Ivana clambered through the attic floor, on her hands and knees like an animal. She hissed and snapped at a skeleton that appeared, unaffected by the ascent. It seemed to melt upwards, into the room, and then another.

Hermione looked at a large ornate glass window at the end of the attic, which cast a beautiful moonlight pattern of green and silver across the boards.

"Grab Snape," she shouted at the men, as she drew her wand. The skeletons approached, with the same air as a Dementor. The smell of rot followed them, like rotten eggs mixed with decayed flesh.

And she noticed a wedding ring on one; the same ring Nott's sister had worn.

And she wondered if there were eight bodies here, out to exact some revenge. As the men gathered up Snape, no questions asked in the moment, she remained in front of them.

And the skeletons bobbed, as if unable to pass her.

Hermione looked at her hand, then the skeletons. They had feared her at the wedding, recoiled at her approach.

She was unworthy; she was their undoing.

And she slit open her palm, with a slash of her wand, and flicked her hand at them.

The sizzle was incredible, as plumes of smoke formed. The smell worsened as the corpses screeched and wailed, much like a Patronus would bite into a Dementor.

_This is going to suck..._

Hermione cut a gash across her forearm, and flicked her hand along it. It was a simple gust charm that turned lethal as she watched the skeletons hiss and wail. The cries of the long-dead bride took to the air, accompanied by her bridesmaids. She pieced together the attire, of rotten silk and lace.

Sirius turned back, to stare Hermione down. While Kingsley helped Snape to the window, he sprinted back, to grab Hermione.

"We have to go," he clamped down on her upper arm, while blood gushed across the floor. Hermione whipped her hand again, and suspended her blood like police tape.

And then she couldn't remember much of anything.

Nothing but blackness, and pain.

Not until she woke up in Hospital Wing, with Snape to her right and her arms in agony. Her Mudblood scar had been sliced apart and reformed, so the letters were skewed.

Draco wasn't here, nor was Ayers. She asked about them, as she'd seen them with Selwyn, pressed against that barrier. She had assumed the barrier had formed itself, to keep Hermione in until someone arrived, to Obliviate her.

But what if she'd done exactly as Voldemort wanted. She had gathered the Order, prime in position to be read like books. He knew everything, more than he'd known before. He knew of Ayers, and how she'd lived to thwart him. He had Draco at his mercy, primed with anger and tragedy. 

How long had Voldemort been there, beneath all their noses?

Why hadn't she tried harder to secure his ring?

It was her fault, she had brought this upon them. 

"It isn't your fault."

Of all the people Hermione expected to be comforted by? Snape was last on the list.

"You're a child; he's a wizard built on miscommunication and misdirection." The man had his eyes closed, as he relaxed against the Hospital Wing pillow. He looked like he was prepared for a funeral, with his face like a death mask. "It's in your nature to pursue information, which in itself isn't the issue. It's how you allow others in, for the sake of a broader image."

"I just wanted to help," Hermione blinked through sleep-caked eyes, as she looked at Snape. He looked catatonic, so it was strange to have him speak in such an elaborate way. "But -- you set Selwyn up, for him?"

"Regrettably." He adjusted his posture. "My intentions were to kill Ayers as requested, and to assume Selwyn's role to assist in restoring Hogwarts. Then, I would vanish."

"But..?"

Snape's lips twitched, his eyes shut. "I couldn't -- you have to _hate_, to kill."

Hermione thought of Ayers, who looked like Lily in too many ways.

"I failed. Which allowed Him the room to float, aimless as he was your First year." He exhaled, his expression slack. "He knew Selwyn was there. He'd asked me to arrange that. Never thought he'd have the chance to use him. I went there, to kill Selwyn, but..."

"He anticipated that -- so he faked being you, to get into the Order?"

Snape seemed so defeated, as the truth spilled from him like a fountain. "He kept me ill and placid. He'd change to me, while Selwyn was his so-called real form. But Selwyn was temporary, while he gathered strength and learned about the Order. Ayers would visit me, her sickly fiance -- " his voice cracked. "As would McGonagall."

"I see," she frowned.

"I'm willing to wager that he requested you remain uninformed, to make you chase an answer. That way, he could control the information you received. Even your inclusion into the Order; he made you work for basic information, which limited you." He adjusted in the bed, and she couldn't get over how strange it was to see him reclined in a night shirt. "If the mystery was as straightforward as being told, you'd have become suspicious." He smiled, at nothing specific. She didn't know if she liked his smile. It made her feel ill.

"Did he tell you anything?"

"He visited to get hair and little else. Not one for chit-chat, that man," he looked over his figure, which had withered. "Tragically, I'm still alive. He hadn't been pleased with my feigned death; I think he wanted me to die, slowly, eventually. But you rushed that along."

"Why didn't you try to escape?"

Snape shot her a nasty look. "He took my magic from me; everything. I was a reduced to an ingredient in his deception." He waved a hand, and nothing happened. "Do you think I stayed there willingly?"

"Why did he let me find you?"

"Given the skeletons that arrived, I can only assume he wanted to tie up loose ends, to kill you and I. Perhaps some of the Order, too, but..."

Hermione rested back against her pillow, as she stared at the ceiling.

"Is Ayers..." he began, broken.

"I don't know."

"Everything I did, I did for her," Snape said, his voice level despite the cracks at each word. "For her, for Lily -- "

"Don't lie," Hermione said, in an absent way. "You did it for you."

Snape was quiet, from his position beside Hermione. He was rail-thin, which emphasized his nose. He succumbed to whatever pulsed through his veins, that had kept him bed-ridden since May.

And all Hermione had in the dark was silence, to reflect on how much she'd ruined things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TELL YOU WHAT; the fic reads REAL different when you go back and re-read the Selwyn/Snape scenes. 😬😬 (whispers I'm so sorry) He pretty much gleaned Snape's memories/attitudes/etc enough to act the part, though you may notice that Snape was Extra Vicious in certain parts. And certain reactions seemed strange. Also his "apology" speech first Potions class..... I could go on......... (This is also The Most Controversial Chapter, and I'm Anxious.)


	44. a changed message.

_ **November 29th, 1998.** _

"So Luna... Charlie," Hermione grimaced, as she sat in the Fifth Floor tea room with Ron and Harry. "And Ginny. Anyone else?"

"Mrs. Malfoy got out St. Mungo's pretty quick though, didn't she," Ron said, with an empty laugh.

Harry had his gaze fixed to the table, his eyes red and raw. He and Ron had spent the past few days in a scramble, to locate where Ayers, Draco and Selwyn had gone -- rather, where the man who looked like Selwyn had gone.

Snape had been relocated to St. Mungo's, along with Hermione. She hadn't wanted to come across, but given how bloody she was when they found her in the garden outside the Shrieking Shack, they wanted to be sure she was okay. But this check-up turned into several agonizing days, of being bed-bound while Selwyn got further away.

"No one's died," Ron said, as a way to lighten the mood. "At least there's that."

Hermione's brow flexed, as she resisted the urge to correct Ron. Draco and Ayers could very well be dead. But that would be a rather cruel thing to say.

Sirius was by their feet, black fur neater than usual. Harry rarely used his status as The Boy Who Lived Twice, but he'd made an exception. He needed Sirius around, as much as Sirius needed Harry.

Hermione worried that Harry projected too much of his parents onto Sirius and Kitty; they'd never be James and Lily.

"Have you seen..?" Harry said, his throat dry.

"I got discharged a half-hour ago, I haven't been able to see anyone," she smoothed her hand through her hair. She'd showered and changed, and had little time elsewise.

Harry made a face, before he shook his head. "We need to see them, before we go."

"Go?" Hermione said, in a small voice.

Harry gave her a tight lipped smile, and she knew without words. She'd have to go back to Hogwarts, to collect her bare essentials, but... She had stupidly thought she'd have her Eighth year, and she'd be able to do her N.E.W.T. exams. She couldn't do a Ninth year.

It would be stupid to try to do it again.

Hermione looked between Ron and Harry, at the boys she'd spent almost a decade with.

"Should've known things were going too well," Ron groaned, as they got up.

Hermione left two Sickles, and they disappeared with the plates. She smiled, for what little there was to smile about.

As the trio went towards the enchanted elevator, Hermione couldn't help but notice how drooped Sirius was, even in his Animagus form.

"We'll get them back," she said, as she pet his neck once. She didn't like to patronize him, but it was meant as a reassurance. He of all people best understood how she felt, though he wasn't able to communicate as much. Instead he leaned his weight against her hip, as he was quite large while she was annoyingly short.

When the elevator dinged as arrived at the Fourth Floor, the announcer ran through a laundry list of wards. They got out before it finished, and she walked in tandem with Harry and Ron, and it felt so much like it used to. Back when they weren't sure if they could defeat Voldemort, or if it was possible to win at all.

(She hated this.)

The first room they visited was Charlie and Ginny. Charlie was awake, with a bowl of strange oatmeal which was bright purple with gold flakes. Hermione narrowed her eyes until she identified it as a cure-all for blood poisoning. He gave them a slack smile, as he settled back into his pillow.

And the four of them slid their gaze sideways, to Ginny, who was as pale as the sheets she laid in. Pale, except for the massive swaths of black across her throat and her collarbone. The marks extended downwards, and deeply resembled the marks that had been on Draco when he'd been attacked.

Hermione forced the thought of Draco aside; she'd cry again if she thought too much about him.

Ginny wasn't awake, but she was breathing. She had her own mixture of beetroot and treated gold by her side, but it was untouched. Several Healers were by her bedside, one of which Hermione recognized.

Hannah Abbott met her eye, and excused herself -- she rushed over, and gave Hermione a hug. The gesture took her by surprise, but she returned the hug after she'd caught up.

"It's been so long," Hannah let out a soft sound of disappointment. "I was going to go back, to Hogwarts, but -- " she gestured at the ward, which Hermione now realized was full of people. More than she'd have thought, or that she'd seen in the past.

"Are all these people here for the -- " Hermione looked at Ginny, unable to explain what it was.

"It's been happening for months," Hannah said, in a low voice. She looked to Ron and Harry, who approached from their vantage beside Charlie.

"And what _is_ it?" Harry kept his eyes trained on Ginny, who'd not moved since they'd walked in.

"They think a branch of Necromancy," Hannah rolled her shoulders, as she looked at the Healers she'd been with. Her lime green uniform had a 'training' badge above the wand and bone cross. "It's highly illegal and poorly documented. But? From what we can tell, it's a parasite, out to kill the host..."

"Why?" Ron hissed, as his height swelled. "What good are a bunch of dead bodies?"

Hannah made a face, as she shrugged her shoulders. "We're not sure."

"When you say kill the host," Hermione said, her brows dropped low over her eyes. "Physically, or mentally?"

"Kill is _kill_, Hermione," Ron snapped back.

"Well," Hannah chewed her thumb, as she looked over the ward. "The closest we can liken it to is a Dementor's Kiss; they're responsive, but there's nothing really _there_."

"So they're not being killed, they're being rendered unresponsive," Hermione logicked out loud.

"But _why_," Harry looked at Ginny, though she remained static.

"Hannah," Hermione looked to the blonde, who had turned a pinkish colour. "How many of the victims are Pure-blooded?"

"What?" She frowned.

"How many," Hermione repeated. "Are Pure-blooded?"

"We don't really track that," she glanced over the ward, as she took a mental tally of the victims.

Before she had finished her sweep, Hermione had worked out the pattern. She had read through the book on Pure-blooded families, which didn't have pictures of any modern witches or wizards, but it gave her a clear direction. She rushed along the beds, to examine each chart.

And they were all Pure-blooded.

The question remained; _why_.

* * *

"You vanished upstairs, with Draco, Selwyn and Ayers, and then the skeletons came down," Luna sucked on her spoon, her face half-obscured by a black mark. It looked like a galaxy, with small speckles of silver and more texture than Hermione could stomach.

"And that's all you remember?" Hermione asked, her hands folded in her lap.

"Neville jumped in front of me, but they didn't seem interested in _him_," Luna wriggled back into her plush pillow. Her skin was cracked around the edges, where the black met the her pale flesh.

"And you're Pure-blooded?"

"Oh, I don't worry about such things," Luna wagged her spoon in Hermione's direction.

"But your lineage..."

"Everyone's magical," Luna smiled. 

The man beside her, with a thick mustache and beady eyes, burrowed further into his bed. He seemed fed up with Luna, from how he scowled in her direction.

"That's very nice, Luna," Hermione smiled sadly. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

"You didn't do it, so no need to be sorry," Luna tossed her lank blonde hair out of her face. One of her legs had turned completely black, and had the appearance of charcoal. Hermione tried not to look at it, as it was exposed for the sake of a Healer's hands which hovered above it.

The Healer was a young man with brilliant blue eyes and blonde hair. He had sharp features and a cunning smile, so much so that he made Hermione ill to look at.

"I wonder," Luna said, her head relaxed into her pillow. "If it had anything to do with that message I gave you for your birthday."

Hermione's head ticked to the side, confusion baked into every inch of her face.

"The one that said, _We take Azkaban_ \-- you know?" Luna smiled, as she always did. "If I were going to have a creepy skeleton army, and hostages, wouldn't Azkaban make a perfect place to hide them? No one goes there willingly, and there's already so many bodies -- "

"Sorry, Luna, you didn't give me a message." Hermione thought back to the random clipping she'd received, and the jeweler's headpiece.

"Oh, I thought I'd let you decode it," Luna tapped her chin. "You hadn't worked it out yet?"

Hermione shot up, her fingers on fire. She wanted to throttle Luna. "Get better, Luna," Hermione rushed past the beds, and out of the room. While Ron and Harry had stuck with Ginny, she had taken it upon herself to see if Luna was okay.

And she was, by virtue of Hermione's kindness.

"I think I know," Hermione exhaled, her hands on her hips. "I know where to look."

* * *

_ **December 1st, 1998.** _

Despite their urgency, the trio awaited permission to investigate Azkaban. They didn't want to storm the place, to find that they'd tripped an alarm, or to accidentally let out prisoners. It had been an anxious two days, but in that time Ginny had woken up, though she remained quiet.

Hermione couldn't stomach it, the weight of her gaze. She didn't blame Hermione, but it felt like guilt no matter how much the girl tried to smile.

Hermione had used her two days of patient waiting to read and re-read her volumes on Necromancy, that she'd taken from the Malfoy mansion. The books at Hogwarts were child's play compared to the insidious cruelty of Dark Arts.

The rituals involved dead children, the blood of battered women, and things Hermione couldn't stand to recite. But she read it, through and through. She didn't know what they'd find when they went to Azkaban, if it was just a false lead, or the solution to the puzzle.

And then her boots impacted with the stonework floor of Azkaban's visitor's centre, and her stomach turned over on itself.

Sirius and Mrs. Malfoy had insisted that they come with the trio, and they had no room to deny the request. Sirius remained in his Animagus form, though it was no secret to any of them that he'd break out of it the second he saw Ayers.

If he saw her.

Then there was Mrs. Malfoy, dressed in sleek black slacks and a black button-up shirt. Hermione felt her pulse quicken. While Lucius inspired disgust in her no matter the occasion, she could see where Draco's finer features had come from.

_Draco..._

It'd been almost a week, and her hopes died with each day.

"I'd like to see my husband, first," Mrs. Malfoy said, her voice aloft.

"We don't have time for family reunions," Harry snapped.

"If you wish to run blind around Azkaban, be my guest," Mrs. Malfoy clipped, as they approached the reception desk.

A small, portly witch sat behind the counter. Hermione mistook her for a gargoyle at first, given her ashen face and deep-set black eyes. She blinked slowly at them, as her hands folded on the counter.

"Narcissa," her voice was cool.

"Yes, yes, Myfanwy, we're here on Ministry business."

"Uh, yeah," Harry dug out a letter from his pocket, which listed their names and their purpose.

"_Full access to... _Is this a joke?" Myfanwy snorted.

"It's from the Minister of Magic himself," Ron piped in, as the three of them bunched around the window. It was a thin slit in the wall, barely suited for one person.

The little witch grumbled, and slid four passes through the slit at the bottom of the window. "No wands."

"Uh, I think you'll find," Mrs. Malfoy tapped a manicured finger on the parchment.

"The Aurors may have theirs," she smiled, sweetly. "But you and the girl, no wands."

Mrs. Malfoy relented, as she handed across a sleek black oak wand with a silver handle. Hermione passed across her wand, too, and they each received a small pink ticket.

"If you lose your ticket, you lose your wand."

And they broke away from the window, which snapped shut.

Two men stood by a large iron door, with runes etched into the hinges and frame. They lit green and purple, one after the other, until the doors creaked open. The men seemed unreal, as they remained perfectly still. It wasn't until Hermione passed by them that she realized they were made of stone, much like the enchanted chess pieces.

She didn't doubt they'd spring to life if needed.

(She hoped they'd not be needed.)

A pretty witch with lank brown hair greeted them, her robes a deep black as she waited beyond the door. "Yes, yes, hello," she waved them in, her fingers interlocked as she took them in. "I've been assigned to guide you through the facility."

"You have?" Hermione said in a flat voice. "We don't need a guide."

"Oh, but," the witch's voice faltered. "It's rather complicated... You could get lost."

"Yeah, okay," Ron shook his hair from his eyes, as he looked down at Hermione. "We could use the help, at first."

"Perfect," the girl beamed. "I'm Dolos, or, just, _Lo_, please."

"Sure Just Lo," Ron smiled, and Hermione wanted to beat him over the head with a nearby loose iron bar.

And she giggled, and the impulse redoubled. While Lo and Ron took the lead, Hermione and Harry followed, and Mrs. Malfoy was at the back. Sirius was stuck beside Harry, his haunches raised as they walked through the dim, crooked entrance to the prison.

Hermione felt a hand on her shoulder, which caused her to falter.

"Caution," Mrs. Malfoy whispered against her ear. She gave her a pat, once, and withdrew. "How long have you worked here, Lo?"

"Ah, only a few months."

"And they're letting you escort people around the place?"

Lo smiled and looked backward, though not at Mrs. Malfoy's eye. Instead she looked at the wall, cautious and unsure. "It's not a popular line of work. Rather miserable, to some people."

"But to you?" Harry said, his eyes narrowed.

"Azkaban has a very rich history," she pushed her fingers through her hair, which remained lank no matter how she fussed with it. "It began as a place of darkness -- "

"And remains one," Mrs. Malfoy interjected.

"Well, it allows the rest of the Wizarding world to be safe, by it's continued existence."

"But how do they protect it?" Hermione said, in a curt voice.

And her question was answered, though she wished it hadn't been.

Dozens of skeletal guards chattered along the halls, though they were far more placid than the ones she'd run into before. Rather than pivot and attack, they seemed to follow a pre-determined path. The smell of human waste rotted in the air, and the only light they had came from slits above in the ceiling, which dripped with condensation.

The air was thick with salt, as they pressed into the cell block.

"Oi -- it's Harry Potter!"

A mixture of boos and cheers ascended, until the sound was deafening.

One man stuck his arm out through the bars, and the otherwise placid guards descended upon him. As their bones made contact with flesh, the arm rotted from flesh, to a slaw of muscles and blood. The bones clattered to the floor, and the skeletons began to feast.

Ron threw up, which Lo managed to dodge at the last second.

"This is the solution?" Hermione hissed. "Does the Minister -- "

"Oh, it's temporary," Lo waved a hand. "They can regrow their limbs, but we have to be harsh."

Hermione felt a pit of hatred swell in her stomach, as they approached the other end of the corridor. She'd not looked at the cells as they passed, as people sobbed and whimpered. The screams of a fellow prisoner set the tone, it seemed.

Once they were out of the open-air cells, they began to descend.

One floor, then two, then Hermione lost count.

They swirled lower and lower, and she felt like she'd been flushed down a toilet from how wet and disgusting it was. By the time their feet hit the bottom level, the ground had turned to mush. There was stone, beneath the muck, but she had to dig her heel to find it.

"This way," Lo said, her voice light.

"We're going to Lucius, are we not?"

"Your husband? Yes," Lo waved a hand, and Hermione felt the anxiety well. The hallway was so cramped, that they had to go single file. If she swung her hands too much, or too wide, they'd hit wet stone. Sconces decorated the walls, but the enchanted fires seemed to be on the way out.

And then the hallway seemed to choke, closer and closer, until it bloomed into a massive atrium.

Hermione gasped, in spite of herself.

It was underwater. Above, she could see an intricate layer of glass and bronze, which had turned green from the water. Several spots seemed to leak, as water trickled down. The room was wide and spacious, with couches and tables laid around in a lackadaisical fashion. Several stone pillars emerged from the middle of the room, with rusted iron manacles. fixed to each side of them.

"This used to be the entertaining room for Ekrizdis; the man who originally constructed Azkaban at large. You see, he'd host dinner parties in here, where he'd invite fellow Pure-blooded wizards to maim and torture the Muggle sailors he'd capture," Lo said, in a curious way. "Now, visitors can meet their families here, if they've been on good behavior."

"No one ever visits," Mrs. Malfoy said, in a sharp tone. "And no one is ever on _good behaviour_."

"Oh, that's not true," Lo dismissed.

"Pardon me for saying so, but as a woman who's had family and friends alike imprisoned here throughout the years, I have a better perspective on the truth," Mrs. Malfoy refused to mince words, as they passed through the domed atrium.

"Well, that says a lot about you, doesn't it," Lo smiled.

"That room is just another way to torture your inmates," Mrs. Malfoy pressed on. "A promise of something more, to give them _hope_."

Lo smiled, as they continued down, deeper, and Hermione felt ill.

They were at least a mile below sea level by now, if not more. She wondered if decompression was a thing down here, or if there were wards against such a thing. This hallway wasn't so constricted, and so she didn't have to listen to the prattle between Ron and Lo.

Leave it to Ron to cozy up with a creepy Azkaban tour guide.

"Ah, here he is," Lo gestured wide with her arm. There was a large iron door, which was rusted beyond reason. She pulled out a single key, which seemed to morph in shape and size. She waited patiently, and after a long moment, it stopped it's shapes.

And then she unlocked the door, a smile still on her face.

"You have visitors," she said, sweetly, as Hermione looked over her shoulder. The placid skeletal guards from upstairs stood at the other end of the hallway, behind them. They creaked, in a cautious way, and it took her a second to realize they weren't here to _protect_ them.

And she realized, these weren't the guards from upstairs at all.

They hurried into the cell, with Lo at the front, and slammed the door behind them. The skeletons rushed, their bony fingers curled around the fine vent in the door. The hiss of bones against rusted iron would haunt Hermione forever, as she watched the awful flashes of their skulls, empty eyes lost as they tried to get through the door.

It creaked, and she wondered if it'd be enough.

Hermione spun, to see Mrs. Malfoy bent over the limp body of Lucius, who was either dead or close to it. Her stomach dropped, as she stared the couple down. And then she heard fur brush against leather, as Sirius formed back into a human -- and slammed Lo into the stone wall.

"Oi, Sirius -- !" Ron tried to intervene, but Sirius slammed her again. She seemed dazed, though she'd been vague from upstairs.

"He planted you, didn't he?"

Lo giggled, blood formed at the corner of her mouth.

"_Guide_ my arse," Sirius threw her aside, and she fell with a nasty clatter. She had hit her arm on the way down, as she scrabbled to find her bearings.

Harry stooped down, to check on Mrs. Malfoy, who cradled Lucius in her lap. He remained unresponsive, his eyes vacant and his mouth popped open.

The skeletons continued to slam against the door, over and over.

Hermione worried a path in front of the door, wandless and wordless, incapable of thought. "There has to be more to this."

"It was a trap, Hermione," Harry snapped back, as he looked up at her. "Simple as that."

"No, it has to be -- " she clenched and unclenched her hands, as she examined the wall opposite. A window into open water gave little light, but it was enough for her to see the room. She summoned fae light into her palm, to approach the walls. She began to pry at the bricks with her fingers, and push at them.

"What are you doing?"

"This place was a murder chamber for Muggles," Hermione said, as clear as she could. "But further to that, the fortress served as -- a playground, I suppose you could say. The wizard who built it likely put passages and gateways between rooms. Beyond that," she tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Look at his fingers."

Lucius had red-raw fingertips, which had faded to a duller brown.

"When Voldemort had the Dementors under his control, and when he was at his most powerful, wouldn't it stand to reason he'd put a back door into the cells, so his followers -- "

And her fingers passed through a brick, and hit something soft. The gap was too small for her hand to fit, so she'd imagine Lucius would have worked himself to the bone, to fight out the immovable stone.

"Have a way back to him."

"People spoke of it, that some cells had a Portkey lodged behind bricks," Sirius mumbled, as he came to stand beside Hermione. He pressed his hand through the gap, and smiled. "Thought it was just false hope."

"Grab her," Harry waved a hand at Lo, who was somewhere between sobbing and laughing.

Mrs. Malfoy stood, from her half-conscious husband. And she turned, wordless, and approached the wall.

It took a few seconds, but Harry managed to pry the bricks free. Inside the dirt wall was a small wooden box, which he levitated out. It landed with a thud on the dirt floor between them, and they held hands, as one does with a Portkey.

The door creaked, louder, as the bones began to break through the rusted door.

Harry took it upon himself to flick the lid open.

When it opened, a small silver dagger sat in the midst of green silk. He reached down to grab it, their hands all linked.

And nothing.

Harry turned it over in his hand, over and over, and his eyes widened.

_"A disappointment for a disappointment."_

Hermione snatched it from his hand, before he threw it at the wall. It was just a plain dagger, no runes, nothing. As if Voldemort expected Lucius to take his own life, in the desperate solitude.

And the door burst open. The skeletons rattled together as Hermione pulled Harry forward, to stand between the bones and the Pure-blooded companions.

Hermione looked at them, as they hissed and paced, as they tried to find a way around them. Hermione stepped closer, her hand outstretched, and they winced away.

"Necromancy is based in belief, and in blood," she laughed, in spite of herself. "My blood, and I'd wager _maybe_ Harry's -- we're seen as a weakness, a dilution of Pure-blooded ways," she lofted the dagger and scrunched her eyes shut. A mixture of magic and malice helped her split open her arm, as much as she hated it; there was no other way, not right now. She held her hand out at them, the bloody knife in her other hand. 

And they screeched, as a challenge.

"Voldemort's own bias built is his undoing. He gave power to Muggleborns, in how he underestimated them, and how he reviles them," she wriggled her fingers, as the blood formed into tiny droplets. She slung them, pain radiated out from her palm, and they screeched anew. "The skeletons grow stronger for all the Pure-blood they ingest, and they wither from _Mudblood_. But it's just blood."

"Great, Hermione, but can you stop _cutting your bloody arms open -- _" Ron hissed, as he put a hand on her waist.

Lo gurgled between them, as her eyes went black and her skin began to erupt with black marks. Her eyes sunk into her head, replaced with black holes, and an onyx skull began to emerge.

Hermione ran forward, at the skeletons, and they began to retreat down the slim hallway. They fumbled and tripped, as a pile of bones and tar. One poor assortment seemed to have gotten it's ribcage wrapped around a sconce, which Hermione tackled with her full weight. They crashed to the ground, as a witch and Inferi, it's black tar coated her thighs and arms. She straddled it with great difficulty, as it clawed at her with black fingers. As it's onyx bones met her flesh, they began to melt into black tar, and hissed out of existence. She rammed the dagger into it's skull, sure she'd throw up soon after. It turned to tar beneath her, though the smoke was acrid.

She smiled triumphant, as her group burst out from Lucius' room after her. They rushed to the Atrium, but the deep black bones all haunted the edges of the room. There were alcoves all over, and plenty of spaces to hide.

Lo cracked around the corner, blood over her face. She crept into the Atrium with the same gait as a big cat, which made the spread of human features macabre.

"Dolos; from the Ancient Greek word _bait_," Hermione said, flat-voiced as she stood. Her arm dripped with blood, her hand formed into a claw around the dagger.

Lo screeched, blood flew from her mouth. Her mouth, she realized, unhinged at the jaw and flapped wide.

"Moreover, it means _deceit, guile, treachery, trickery_," Hermione continued, as Lo approached her. The hulking mass of torn flesh hissed at her. "To corrupt, to ensnare."

Their guide's body had split apart further, the skin still clung in pieces. Her body swelled at the joints as she turned skeletal. She looked like a spider, strung together with bloody sinew and black tar.

"Not sure why I expected subtlety from a man who calls his followers _Death Eaters_."

Lo lunged, and Hermione shielded, wandlessly, which sent the half-woman head first into the wall. She cackled and hissed, as Hermione raised her free hand.

"_Sectumsempra_!"

The creature's side split open, as she heard Ron and Harry fend off the skeletons. The room smelled of salt and blood. Her blood; theirs.

As Lo lunged for her, she sunk her arm into the beast she'd cut open. She went dagger first, unsure if she hit anything vital. The mess of bones and flesh weighed against her for a slow second. Then it went still.

Although the dagger hadn't struck anything solid, her blood seeped into the core of the beast. It's flesh crackled and turned to obsidian, pitched scarlet and black like jewels. There was silence, aside from the rattle of bones. Then, green cracks overtook her form, as she began to splinter and fall apart, her hulking frame falling to pieces in the Atrium.

"Hermione!" Ron called, as the skeletons had taken this moment of quiet to scale the walls, to escape _her_. Their fists pounded against the fragile glass ceiling, one crack, then two.

Then the ceiling began to break inward, downward, and water flooded her ankles. She ran as best she could through the shallow water, and tripped on the leg of a chair. Glass and water rained down on them, ice-cold water all around her. She felt weak, from the lack of blood and from the gore, and she slogged through the water. The glass cut into her palms and knees, and she just wanted to die, all at once.

Anything to stop the pain -- 

Sirius snatched her up, into his arms, and carried her to the too-tight hallway. He pushed her ahead of him, his hand beneath her arm pit, his gait too quick for her. She stumbled along the hallway, and she could see Harry and Ron ahead, with Mrs. Malfoy behind Sirius. 

The ran, as water chased them along the narrow passageway, at their ankles, then calves. By the time they got to the rickety staircase, Hermione feared they might drown before they reached the top.

And then they landed, wet and terrified.

A man in purple robes greeted them, though his surprise turned to anger. His slick black hair fell out of place as he began to shout, wordless sounds, of anger, of confusion.

"-- could have died! Why didn't you wait for someone to guide you into the lower levels?" He snapped. "Sirius Black -- "

Sirius punched him, once, and the group sat in wet, hot terror.

Everyone except Lucius; Hermione couldn't find it in herself to care.

They'd survived.


	45. me in lucem de tenebris.

_ **December 1st, 1998.** _

"Great," Ron rested against the stained stone wall behind him. 

The seawater lapped a few feet below the start of the stairs, where the Atrium had flooded from. Hermione hoped that there were no inmates downstairs.

It'd be too late for them to do much.

"What was the point of all that?" Sirius scraped his fingers against his scalp, his knuckles now red from where he'd struck the mystery guard. The man was now arranged beside Sirius, unconscious.

"We asked for permission, from the Ministry," Mrs. Malfoy said, aloof. "No doubt he heard through _someone_, and set it up."

"We should have just broken in!" Sirius kicked the wall. "What? Stop laughing, Harry."

"Sorry," Harry wiped his glasses on the hem of his sweater, which was soaked through. "Just, imagine you, trying to break into Azkaban."

"What can I say, I missed the atmosphere of death and decay," Sirius threw his hands up, to rest them on his hips.

The laughter lived and died at the same moment, as Hermione allowed Mrs. Malfoy to mend her forearm.

"There must be a way you can do this, without the -- " she touched the seam she'd formed into Hermione's arm. It was a cleaner job than before, but now the _Mudblood_ scar was twice as much offset.

Mrs. Malfoy thumbed the scar, her hands warm and her touch gentle.

"Thank you," Hermione took her wrist, to stop her from fixating on it. "I'm sorry, about Lucius."

"Don't be." Mrs. Malfoy's expression was so like Bellatrix's as she glared at the watered-in stairwell. "He was dead to me the second he sold our son out for his own life."

"I ask again," Sirius repeated, now on the floor beside the rest of them. "What was the point."

Hermione picked up the dagger she'd tossed aside when she'd tried to stop the bleeding. "_We _went to get answers from Lucius, but I doubt he'd have known much more than we do."

"So it was for nothing?" Ron said, his voice empty.

"Well, you did get some quality flirtations in with that eldritch beast."

"Eldritch what -- " Ron began, confused. "Are you _jealous_?"

"Oh please," Hermione rolled her eyes, as the stampede of feet approached. It was heels and sneakers, a mixture of clacks and thuds. And then five men appeared, in various states of dress.

Some were half-in their uniform, while others had no robes at all. But they all had a pass clipped to their hip, on a long silver chain.

"What's happened here!"

"Voldemort," Harry said, deadpan.

A series of hisses and shrieks sounded, and Hermione winced at the sound.

"Not him, specifically, but Azkaban has Inferi trapped in it, somewhere. Whether they were downstairs only, or mixed in with your other bodies -- " Harry pushed up from the floor, his brow furrowed. "What do you do, with the bodies?"

"That's classified information, Mr. Potter," the shortest man said, though he was the broadest still. He had thick eyebrows that hid his wide blue eyes, and a hunch to his posture. He was half inside his purple robes, with one arm inside it while the rest floated behind him like a cape.

"As an Auror on behalf of the Ministry, with clearance above _yours_, as ordained by the Minister of Magic, I ask again," Harry stepped closer, and Hermione felt her stomach drop. "What do you do with the bodies?"

"That is -- that can't be -- you can't just -- "

"Take us to the bodies, _now_."

The smallest, broadest man was left, as the other Aurors went for the waterlogged stairs. They cast a Bubblehead charm each and seemed to have a set of tools. Hammers, rulers, an assortment of bolts and a small bag that she'd wagered was magically expanded. The Atrium must have flooded before, and would likely flood again.

The lack of care made her feel ill.

"Yes, well..." He croaked, his fat bottom lip poked out. He was in his late forties, but the pout made him look like a portly child rather than an Azkaban guard. "This way."

"Cripes, Harry," Ron mumbled under his breath.

Harry didn't say a word, and Hermione allowed him space. The guards hadn't made a sound about Sirius, though they seemed occupied with the potentially drowned out prison below, and the people in solitary confinement.

The guard plodded along, his head hung and his hands in nervous circles. Mrs. Malfoy had a nasty smile on her lips

(Sadism at it's finest, she supposed.)

"You see, we can't just... It isn't how we do things, it's a very careful balance, ever since the Dementors disappeared," he prattled. "They still pop up, like mushrooms, you leave a room for too long, they just appear -- "

"Where?"

They stopped, at Harry's insistence.

"Where, what?"

"Where do the Dementors appear from?"

"From where the deceased are laid to rest."

They continued, at least able to hit the two locations in one. Harry and Ron lead them, alongside Dawdley. He'd said his name, in his rambles. Whereas before he'd tried to seem intimidating, his loss of control had turned his mouth into a faucet.

"Awful times, awful times, ever since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named died, well, not died, you know, it seems he's not dead, but it's just gotten worse here, rather than better. Too many Death Eaters, slapped in here, no thought, just dropped into the place, like a day care, with not enough patrols, not enough people."

Hermione remained a step behind the pair, while Narcissa and Sirius walked behind her.

They were in the midst of their own conversation.

"Never picked you to be the one to go to the light side, Cissy."

"There's no light or dark," Mrs. Malfoy replied, her voice slow. "Just values that contrast or align with your own."

"So the Order..."

"Aligns with my values." Narcissa paused, and Hermione heard her throat click. "I'm so sick of it, Sirius. Of blood, of war. i just want my son safe, and happy."

"And you think that the Order can give that to you?"

Hermione felt Mrs. Malfoy's gaze pierce into the nape of her neck. Her hair was went, pulled into a bun, and she felt a chill down her spine.

"I hope so."

The hallway widened rather than condensed, though it began to dip lower as before. Not as it had, as a steep spiral into the bowels of the sea, but instead to a better vantage over the ocean.

Hermione could see the intricate lace of iron bars, intersected in ornate patterns. Some words were spelled out in Latin, and it took her a second to piece it together.

_"Mors Principium Est."_

Hermione winced.

"Is that the git's name, who made the place?" Ron said, as he craned his neck.

"Death is the beginning," Hermione corrected a knee-jerk reaction.

"Oh," Ron said, idle. "_Oh_."

And then the cliff-side burst wide open, into craggy rocks and open spits of air. They had arrived mid-afternoon, and now had an expanse of inky black air.

There were no stars here.

Just the moon, two days from full.

Two days until it'd been a week, and Hermione would lose all hope of finding Draco alive, if at all.

A full moon was pain to a werewolf, magical to Potions and the sign of a sealed intention, and of harvest. All past intentions promised to the moon were set to be reaped.

If you believe such things.

"So you see Mr. Potter," Dawdley said, his lips pouted around his words. "We bring the bodies here, of those who have no families, or no loved ones to bury them."

"And?"

"And!" Dawdley gestured to a giant furnace, as if it were obvious. "They're cremated and scattered to the wind."

"Smells like a barbecue," Sirius interjected, which drew Dawdley's attention.

"S... Sirius Black!"

"No, that's my brother, I'm Remus Black." He waved a hand, a single tear in his eye. "My dearly departed brother, rest his gorgeous soul, why, he died, years ago, dreadful, you know."

"Sirius didn't have a brother named Remus -- "

"Oh, were you his lover?" Sirius gasped, hands clasped. "Did you two whisper all your most intimate secrets?"

Mrs. Malfoy snickered, unkind. For a newly minted widow, she was having a wonderful time, it seemed.

"I would never! I have -- business, to attend to!" Dawdley was red, from hairline to throat, as he stomped his foot.

"My brother had fantastic taste," and he winked, and Hermione wanted to shove him off the cliff.

Dawdley sprinted back the way they came, and Sirius dropped his act.

"He was always fun to mock," Sirius made a face, deep amusement twisted around his lips. "Took him long enough to ask, though, didn't it?"

"Remus?" Hermione said, softly.

Sirius faltered, red in the cheeks. "First name I thought of."

Harry and Ron had moved across to the furnace, their wands held towards it. It was cast iron, and rusted on one side. It was built into the stone wall, and stood almost ten feet tall. Hermione crossed her arms and approached it, though she wasn't sure what Harry's line of reasoning was.

"Harry?"

Harry pried the door open, his jaw set.

"Harry," Hermione repeated, plainly.

"What?" Harry turned, to glare at her. His expression softened when he saw her flinch. He blinked, hard, and shook his head.

"Oi," Ron cut in, his hand out held towards Harry. "Don't snap at her."

"What is it, Hermione?" Harry tried again, his jaw in small circles. His bright green eyes seemed less hard, at least.

"Why are we here?" She asked, unsure in her tone.

"He's got to be getting the bodies from somewhere, mustn't he?" Harry looked at the wide, open grate. The mouth of the cave was covered in by iron bars. "If he's summoning the bodies, or bones if they're dead... The grate isn't gonna stop him."

"You think he's taking bodies from here?" Hermione echoed, annoyed she'd not thought of it sooner.

"Those first bodies, they had Dark Marks, so... So, it'd make sense, if he'd come here to collect what he considers _his_." Harry leaned against the stone wall beside the furnace, his brow furrowed. "Who's going to protect dead bodies of prisoners?"

"He's got a point, 'Mione."

"You can have a point and not be rude," Hermione crossed her arms, her nose raised into the air.

"Guys -- " Ron said, nerves in his tone.

"No, Ron, I'm not gonna let her yell at me," Harry pushed off from the wall, his hands on his hips. "Ginny's sick -- "

"Ginny's sick! I know!" Hermione said back, her hands bunched at her sides. "My boyfriend is _missing_, he might even be dead, having your partner in peril is no excuse -- "

"Guys," Ron repeated, louder.

"Please, don't stop on my account."

Harry and Hermione pivoted, to stare down Draco.

Hermione felt her heart jump, as she sprinted over to him. He caught her with ease, a smile on his lips and his arms around her waist.

"How did you -- how -- " Hermione repeated, her mouth too loose to form words.

"Suffice to say, he's lost his touch," and he knocked her chin with his index finger, as she stared up at him. "Why are we _here?_"

"Better question," Harry drew his wand, alongside Ron. "Why are _you_ here?"

Draco frowned, and Hermione turned to glare them down.

"What do you mean, why is he here?"

"Hermione," Harry said, in sheer disbelief. "Get away from him."

And she turned, to look at Draco. He had the same ice-blue eyes and blonde hair.

"I light..?" She said, anxious.

No response.

Hermione dug her nails into his hand, to pull him away from her, to get him _off_ her. But she found his grip vice-like, and his eyes lethal. She cut into his flesh and found no freedom.

Instead, she found the ring, of bronze and diamond.

And then she was gone.

And she wanted so badly to scream.

_"Wow, no wonder they call you the brightest witch of your age."_

The words echoed in her head, whispered into her temple by too-warm lips. Draco had said that to her, when she'd fallen for his trick, when she'd stolen the wrong Potions notes. And she'd fallen for a new trick now, it seemed, though it felt more cruel than kind.

She wanted very much for the spinning to stop.

And it did, all at once.

Draco remained pressed against her, but she struggled all the same. She tried, again and again, to Apparate anywhere, away from him, as far as she could go, to the gardens at the Malfoy mansion, to her childhood home, anywhere.

Instead, she stood in an unfamiliar home, with torn paintings and no sense of magic.

"Now," he exhaled, his voice wavered, and then was wholly different. But rather than a rasp, it smacked of honey and light. "I thought it'd be difficult to single you out, but you made it so easy. I'm a little disappointed in you, Hermione. Boys make one _stupid_, it seems."

Hermione shoved him, and he didn't move.

Instead, she was thrown against the couch. "_Stay_," he said, with the air of a request. She was frozen to the spot, by a binding hex. She had control of her eyes, but little else.

He disappeared and reappeared, intermittently.

"To put your mind at ease, let's clear the air. Draco is dead, his body is mine," he smiled, kindness in his eyes. She hated it. "I don't have much _time_, you see," he tapped Draco's watch -- _her_ watch, rather, with the gold band and cartoons on the band. "Oh, right," he wiggled his fingers at her, so her lips were free to move.

"What do you want with me?" Hermione said, flatly, due to her limited range of motion.

"Straight to it, I can appreciate that," he smiled again and came to crouch in front of her. "Well, how to put this -- "

Hermione spat in his face.

He didn't react, not at first. The spit slid down his cheek, and by the time it stopped, she saw stars. Her nose was broken, she knew that from the spill of blood and the sickening crunch. It had been worth it, even if it was Draco's fist that had done it.

"Manners, dear girl! You're a guest, and I don't like my guests misbehaving." And then her body went alight, though she was still frozen to the spot.

She knew this one by name; Crucio.

Her nerves were on fire, like thousands of pinpricks dug into her flesh. It would fade, slowly, and then double in intensity. 

And it didn't stop, not as he fussed with a small suitcase.

"You've been a thorn in my side, haven't you," he looked at her, with an air of affection. She wanted to throw up. "For as long as Potter has defied me, you've been right behind him. Exceptionally clever, present mistake excluded," he waved at himself. "But I don't blame you. How could you hope to exceed me."

"Where's Draco?"

He, who she could only assume was Voldemort, laughed. "I told you, he's dead."

Hermione felt her head throb, as she searched for the lie.

"Emily, dear?"

Emily shuffled into view, her nails chipped and her chin dropped low.

"Could you get her wand for me, my pet?"

Emily walked over with mechanical precision, to search Hermione's robes. She couldn't strain against the grabs, though she did watch the girl with her eyes.

"Really, Emily?" Hermione said, her disbelief stretched each syllable.

Emily's chin bobbed, though she didn't speak.

"How long has this been going on?" She asked though she doubted she'd get an answer.

"Only a few weeks, thankfully," Voldemort said, on Emily's behalf. "She's not all there, poor thing. Funny how a handsome face will ruin clever women. As you've experienced."

Emily pried the dagger from her robes, the silver flashed in the dark. "She's got no wand."

"Ah yes, thank you," Voldemort accepted the dagger, which he slid into a harness on his waist. He looked to Hermione, a vague smile on his lips. "I have to thank you for fetching that for me -- it's one of the ceremony knives for Death Eaters initiation. For their Mark, you see."

Hermione looked at her arm, what she could see of it.

He approached, to push back her sleeve. Her skin felt like bruises and ice beneath his touch, as he thumbed the Mudblood scar.

"You had the privilege of meeting one before. At the hands of Bellatrix, correct?" And he scrubbed at the scar, which seared beyond even the sensation of pins and needles. "Which means you have my blood inside you -- how intimate. No other Mudblood has had the privilege, you should feel special -- "

"Sir?" Emily said, her voice weak. "It's getting close -- "

He sliced a hand through the air, and Emily fell limp. Then, possessed, she was flung against the wall, like a doll. There was a sickening crunch, though the bones broke and reformed as he held his hand towards her.

"Do not," the bones refractured "Interrupt me." The bones reformed.

And Emily didn't scream.

"Stop!" Hermione shouted, her eyes watering.

Voldemort slanted his gaze, to smile at her. "Dear," he waved his fingers, and she stood against her will. "I need you need to behave for me."

And the room went black, as she was met with the wall, same as Emily.

A broken doll, limp on the floor.

* * *

There was fog in all directions. She was weightless, feather-light, and she felt the gentle touch of her silver key necklace against her collarbone. She touched it, to still it's momentum, though she couldn't seem to find a way out.

Or a way in?

It was strange.

But as she toyed with the silver key, a light flickered, in the distance. It was like a boat at sea, a gradual spin of light, round and round.

The light at the end of the tunnel, as they said.

She was dead. That's what it was. That made logical sense, as she'd been thrown with such force her neck had likely snapped. At least she hadn't suffered at Voldemort's hand, though she failed to see why he'd kill her in such a brutal fashion.

Perhaps she wasn't worth the spell.

She thought of Draco, and how his neck had snapped; of how he should have died on the Qudditch pitch, but she'd gotten several lovely weeks with him instead.

They'd been on borrowed time for a while.

As she approached, she realized the light was coming from a small keyhole, rather than a massive boat. But the light was blinding, so much so that it took her what felt like hours to adjust, as she stared it down.

It was Draco.

She struggled towards him, through the thick fog that felt like overproduced soup. By the time her fingers touched him, he was cold, impossibly so.

She yanked him close, and he spun, the light still too bright for her.

And the key, it would fit, if she could just -- 

Hermione awoke, faced with her corpse.

She blinked, out of confusion. She had heard of out of body experiences, but this was beyond that.

Her long brown hair was sprawled out like she'd been shocked. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were vacant. She didn't seem totally dead, not as her breath condensed just above her lips, but that could be the slow release of oxygen as her muscles relaxed.

She reached out, and saw cracked polish in an alternating pattern; Hufflepuff colours.

And yet there was her body, motionless, mouth agape and gaze set on the ceiling.

"Hmm," Voldemort broke her line of sight, a staff held to one side. She was too fixated on the staff, made of a burnt wood beyond recognition. A small orb was encased at the top, between the curls of its roots, with a thick red liquid.

Blood, rather.

"Much better." When he touched her, she felt warmth where before there'd been impossible pain. There was no pain and no ice, and though the phantom of both clung to her. He stroked her face like he was out to find an imperfection like she was a doll, not a human. He smelled her hair, which made her heart jump.

He was too close and smelled too much like Draco.

"Emily..?" His voice was enough to break the illusion. It lacked the death rattles of his previous form, and she could begin to understand how he'd wrapped dozens of people around his fingers with no issue. But she hated him, more and more, even as he craned to look at Hermione's askew body.

The body snapped to life, with frantic breathes and terrified shakes. It clawed at the table, at _her_ hair and _her _face -- and then they began to sob.

Voldemort waved a hand at her, blind, and her sobs became silent. He had his hands bracketed either side of Hermione's thighs, as she'd been sitting when she'd snapped awake.

"You may say thank you when you feel ready." He raised a brow at her, a smile on his face.

"What did you do?" Hermione hissed.

"I fixed you," he carded his fingers through her striped bob, his expression distasteful. "Your mind was an asset but your body was a mistake," he gestured loosely at her body, the bushy-haired girl with too-skinny legs and wide brown eyes. "I've made you Pure."

Hermione shoved at his chest and he laughed.

"Again, I _tell_ you to say thank you." He relented, to give her space, his arms held wide.

"Blood purity is hogwash, and you're an idiot to think otherwise."

Voldemort watched her with narrowed eyes. He stepped back, one step, two, and then left altogether. She watched him leave, her gaze fixed on the staff of burnt wood and the little blood orb.

A rock bounced inside of it, as red as the blood itself.

Hermione rushed after him. The door was locked and any hope she had of magic was lost. She tried everything she could think of, but nothing worked.

Instead, she could hear the sobs, of a girl who sounded much like her.

Hermione rushed over to grab Emily by the shoulders. Whatever had obscured her cries had faded as he left, and she had far too many questions.

"What happened?" She hissed.

"Selwyn saw..." Emily swallowed hard. "Selwyn saw I was sad, one night... I was upset, about Draco and he... he comforted me."

Hermione's urge to throw up resurfaced. She didn't want to know how a Professor had seduced a student to win her loyalty, so the less she knew, the better.

"But he said he could find a way, for Draco and I -- because we're Pure-blooded -- and he -- "

Hermione resisted the urge to smack Emily over the head, but only because it was her own head.

Whatever magic had secured Voldemort to Selwyn's body had been twisted, to tie him to Draco, and to tear Hermione and Emily apart. And once they were apart, he'd pieced them back together, as if he were a magical Frankenstein.

"Draco turned up, to Hogwarts, said he wanted to elope -- I thought Selwyn had done it."

"Oh, he had done it." Hermione massaged her eyes but found her proportions all off. She had no sense of her own body, not as she tried to pace the room. "We need to get out."

"We can't," Emily said, softly. "I tried."

"That staff." Hermione pointed at Emily, a frown on her face.

"It's got..." Emily choked on her tears. "It's got a little... A little rock in it... He uses it to bring people back to life. But they're not the same, they're..." She struggled to speak, stuck between tears and anger.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples, her eyes furrowed shut.

"It's useless -- "

"Shut up," Hermione snapped.

A rock that brought people back to life, but they weren't the same. Hermione worried her teeth over her bottom lip. Except it didn't take her long to piece together the process.

He'd augmented the Resurrection Stone with blood magic. She could only assume that was how he managed to bring back his Death Eaters, into temporary bodies, out to exact revenge. His ties to their blood left him in fuller control with less effort, she'd wager, and the less 'Pure' the blood by his standard, the less control he had.

She paced back and forth, one hand on her chin while the other bracketed her elbow.

The death of the soul was different to the death of a body. As Sirius had died as he'd become stranded in The Veil. If Voldemort had control of Draco's body but had exorcized his soul -- it meant that he could be trapped The Veil, as Sirius was.

His chest, parted, awaiting the key...

That's what she'd dreamed of, wasn't it?

She frowned, openly.

And even if that wasn't true, she refused to believe that Draco was dead. Not while his body moved around, piloted by Voldemort. There had to be a link she had missed or something she could do.

The door swung open, as he returned with his suitcase and the staff to one side.

"Are you still with us, then?" He looked at Emily, coated in Hermione's flesh, and sneered.

"You said I'd be with Draco -- after -- "

"Oh, right, of course," he smiled, kindly. "_Avada Kedavra!"_

And Hermione's body went limp.

Rather, the body that Emily was inside of. Her chest glowed with the aftermath of the curse, something Hermione had never seen up close. The essence of life didn't fade so quickly; rather, it lingered.

That was how a Horcrux was made, as one would drink up the lifeblood and take it for oneself. There were more steps, but she'd never learned them exactly. She hadn't wanted to, either. Instead, she watched with abject horror as she processed her own death.

And her future as a Pure-blood broodmare, in a war she had thought she'd stopped. Her future was to be nothing but torture until she submitted to him, or she'd be turned into a spy, to be under his thumb until the world crumbled.

This was all her fault.

"Now they're together." He smirked down at Hermione, his gaze unfaltering. "I never lie -- "

"Wait," Hermione cut in, to approach him. "I'm sorry."

He arched a brow, his jaw set in place. She didn't look at his eyes, she refused, and he allowed her this petulance.

"I'm sorry, I'll... I'll do whatever you want," Hermione said, her voice shaking. Her eyes were fixed to her own immobile chest, where the green lingered, wrapped around the silver necklace of her corpse. Her bloody nose had covered the jewelry in blood.

"Pardon?" He stepped towards her, annoyed at her compliance. She had expected him to be pleased. It didn't matter either way to her.

"I promise to behave if you let me have my necklace." She reached towards it, cautious. "That's all I ask of you."

"This little key is worth your freedom? How vain of you." Voldemort scowled at her. "How pathetic -- you see one girl die, and you yield? I expected more from you," he tossed aside his briefcase to snatch the necklace before she could.

A thrash of wind overtook them, in the abandoned bedroom of whatever Muggle he had murdered. A storm seemed to surround them, unending, cruel, as her short bob flickered around her face, and a broad smile formed. It turned sinister, cruel, as she watched the fear build in his eyes.

In Draco's eyes; but they weren't Draco's, not anymore.

The winds doubled, over and over, and Hermione watched as light sprung between his fingers. It formed from beneath them, then swallowed them. He stared at it, confused, as the light brightened. It was green and bright and worsened with each second that passed.

And then the room went white, bright, as it'd been in her dream.

"What is this -- "

She grabbed the dagger at his waist, which she stabbed into his chest. It didn't go deep, as a chest was a hard thing, but she only needed a little, just enough for a key. Tears streamed from her eyes, as she twisted the knife. Draco's shocked expression coughed down at her, blood pooled at the corners of his mouth.

"Hermione -- " It was Draco's voice, and she ignored it.

"_Me in lucem de tenebris!" _ She slammed his hand into the hole she'd drive into his chest, to force her bloodied necklace into his chest.

She saw relief in his eyes, as the warmth of the light consumed them.

* * *

_**???????? ????, ????.** _

Silver was a fascinating metal. Even Muggles recognized it's healing properties, as it was used in many medical processes. Beyond that, it was known to bring peace and to heal wounds, both physical and mental. It's thought to reflect evil intentions, which made Hermione smile when she thought about it.

Furthermore, it was associated with the moon. This was less of a fun fact, and more of something that deeply annoyed Hermione when she thought about it. The moon haunted her, and Trelawney would love that, if she were around to mock Hermione for it.

There was recognized feminine energy inherent in silver, as it was said to bond whoever held it closer to their gems. She doubted this part, as she had no gems to speak of. Not unless you counted the sapphire ring that she'd lost to Voldemort. It wasn't as if she had it anymore.

Hermione had gotten used to the fog by now, at least.

Being dead wasn't so awful; it wasn't fun, but it wasn't as dreary as people made it seem.

It was just strange, really, to float without direction. She waited for an idea, of where she should be, but nothing came her way. Instead, she floated, and found a Library with no books, and a lake with no water. She wondered if it was a lake still, with the reeds exposed and the fish all dead at the bottom.

But again, the Library with no books could offer no answers, and so she floated, aimless.

She had pieced it together though, or she believed she had. She had no way to check it, but she had time to think about it. She had acted on instinct, as she knew her blood would hurt anything Pure-blooded and full of Necromancy. That had been what spurred her on, as she'd stabbed her -- well, her lover, in a sense.

(She'd not told him she loved him, but she did. She worked that much out.)

Her Muggleborn blood, mixed with the protective silver key of the scorned Malfoy family and a soul consumed with love -- it was a tragic cocktail for Voldemort, an antithesis to everything that brought him power. She floated, aimless, her arms crossed and her mind alight. She'd had time to think about it, to piece it together.

At least she'd had time, to think and to accept her death. It was hard to be upset when she felt more bored, like she was stuck in the waiting room rather than at peace. Perhaps no one had found her body. Or, given how she was split between two bodies, she wasn't able to rest.

She thought she'd seen Draco, once or twice, but they'd been shapeless forms. She'd chased them, to the edges of darkness, but she'd been too afraid to go beyond that. If light led you to your death, then the darkness...

This was better, this darkness.

And then a hand reached out, through the dark, to stroke her cheek.

And she allowed the darkness to take her.

She'd thought enough.

"Hermione?"

She leaned into the hand, warm and familiar. She couldn't see anything, but she felt the slender fingers that she'd watched pull apart Potions ingredients, and pull her into hidden alcoves. She knew the pressure, of fondness and of reverence, like he was afraid she'd vanish if he touched too much of her.

"Back to that, are we," she said, groggily, tears down her cheeks. "_Draco_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))))))))))))
> 
> Can I say now that the title has always been 'Find A Way To Live On' because of these scenes or -- because -- :))))))) also "soul searching" :))))))))))))))))))))))))))))) Also leave it to Hermione to fUcKiNg StAb VoLdEmOrT.


	46. i light the dark.

_ **December 24th, 1998.** _

Draco held the bouquet aloft, so as to not hit the others on the elevator. The bouquet was the largest yet. Nevermind the fact that it was what one should do for the girl they loved.

He had spent half an hour on the flower choices with both Tripley and his mother's assistance. White tulips for forgiveness, blue lilies for peace and white roses...

For reasons he felt obvious.

His mother stuck to his side most days that he was home, away from Hogwarts. Her eyes poured into his, out for answers he refused to give her. But she got them, slowly, eventually. She didn't say as much, and she allowed him the peace to leave it unsaid.

That had been the pattern of things, in the weeks since the Order had appeared at Selwyn's Muggle home.

The one that had been ransacked by the Ministry. The one that the Order had picked through first. The one he'd spent a fearful week trapped within, as a body in motion with no control.

He looked at the flowers.

The elevator dinged, and several people got out. He wished he was one of them, as the ward they'd gotten off at was for those who'd suffered a broomstick crash or a cursed ring.

He'd never thought he'd wish for Hermione to have fallen from a broomstick, not in earnest.

Instead, he stayed on until the Fourth Floor. The Janus Thickery Ward felt like a second home, given how he'd been here every day since the start of December. His grip shifted on the bouquet, round and round.

His mother had allowed him to visit alone today, given it would be their last visit.

He bit down that thought with a hard swallow.

Down the corridor, he saw Ron and Harry approach. They'd not spoken much, not since they'd found him crouched over her unresponsive body at Selwyn's home. He'd been stabbed, but adrenaline kept him in motion.

It still hurt when he screamed, and even worse when he cried. He'd held her in that bedroom, as long as he could. He was weak and directionless, sure that if he held her close enough, he could fix her, but he couldn't. His hands were meant for destruction, and she laid in a bed at St. Mungo's as a testament.

He had broken his hand at one point, out of anger. He later realized it was the same hand that had broken her nose, and drawn her blood, the same hand that had pulled her close and taken her from her friends.

Ron had mistaken Draco for Voldemort at first, and the manic look in his eyes and blood all over him did little to dissuade that. 

Ron had broken his nose; he didn't really care.

Ron still had the gold and ruby ring, the same one that had flashed in his vision before the room went black. When he awoke, manacled in the lounge room below, he managed to convince them he was really himself again. And then the answers poured in, that Voldemort had taken his body and used it as a new home.

Given that Voldemort's original body was so wasted and decayed by the Dark Arts, he'd planned to use Draco as a fresh start and a new reign of terror. His background and his family name would make it easy, to act as a second coming of Voldemort.

But that hadn't happened; at least he could take solace in that.

The ring, as it happened, allowed Ron to sense if those he loved were in true danger. Not small problems, but life-altering danger. That's what he'd said, as he cradled his broken hand and Draco cradled his broken heart.

It had been how he'd found his way to her in the Malfoy mansion. But rather than Hermione's clever control of the ring, he claimed it wasn't so clear to him. It only happened twice, that he knew.

Hufflepuff protected the truth; Slytherin stole the truth. Ravenclaw sought knowledge; Gryffindor sought protection.

Ron didn't get it, no one seemed to.

To Draco, it was crystal clear.

Voldemort hoped that Ron would appear, with Harry and the Order, and he could destroy the set in quick succession. He intended to reduce Hermione to bait, and pulled her close in the hopes he could sway her allegiance, as if he'd done her a service in offering her a Pure-blood body.

His arrogance saw him to his end, over and over. As if he couldn't learn from his mistakes; Of how he shouldn't underestimate others; of how no amount of Pure-blood could protect him.

But Voldemort hadn't survived, as much as anyone could tell. Draco didn't know much, no one saw fit to tell him. Not since he'd woken up with his family's silver key lodged into his chest and too much blood.

Her blood; his.

She wasn't strictly dead, nor alive.

And he had used the weeks that followed with the help of his family fortune and resources to locate her parents. They didn't quite get it, not as they stood outside of their daughter's room, plain white mugs held in hand.

They understood, on a base level, but they'd not cried or cared as much as Draco should think was appropriate. Then again all he did was cry lately, wedged into the Eighth year dorms, burdened by Emily's death and --

She wasn't dead, he reminded himself.

(Not yet.)

Draco watched the bunting as he walked, so as to avoid her parents' eyes. There were Hippogriphs in adorable Christmas hats, pulling a sled with a weedy House Elf and a slew of toys. These were pinned along the hallway, as if to inject Christmas joy into a joyless place.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger greeted him with the same warmth they always did. They thought he was handsome and well-off, and they said they were happy their daughter had such good taste.

He hadn't the heart to explain to them how awful he was.

He allowed them their vision of him, a kind and caring boyfriend, a man who cared very much for their daughter. At least she'd had someone that loved her, even at the end of it all.

A little good, to balance the tragedy of the daughter they'd lost twice now.

And then he was in her room, same as always. The amount of flowers waxed and waned, though it seemed to have hit the final crescendo. There were cards, both hand-drawn and ornate, covered in gold and silver. It was too much colour for him, and he suspected she would agree.

Some were Christmas themed cards, given that Christmas was today, though most were well wishes and platitudes. He'd not bothered to read any of them, as they weren't his.

Amidst the plain bed-sheets, she laid like she was asleep. She wasn't disheveled by restlessness either, her hair neat, her hands folded.

She looked less like a corpse and more like a girl who'd studied too much, who'd settled for a well-deserved nap. He added his flowers to the masses, as an excuse not to look at her.

They'd dated for a few weeks, if he counted.

It felt like forever, and not nearly enough.

"You can wake up now," he said, a laugh in his voice.

And she didn't.

"Honestly, I never imagined you of all people would play sick to get out of class. I'm disappointed."

And she remained still and quiet.

He approached her bedside, to take her hand into his. He had a preferred seat and preferred angle.

He shouldn't have either.

She should be alive and well, awake to enjoy her victory. She should be proud.

So proud.

No one knew how she'd done it, but Draco had several pieces of the puzzle. Her blood, his key, and -- he wished she was awake, to scoff at him and explain it like he was stupid. Perhaps that was part of his self-loathing, how he'd thrive in her condescension. He thrived in any attention she gave him, ate it like fresh peaches in the summer, sweet and tart all at once, how she'd go red in the face and wide in the eyes.

But she looked so alive, and Draco felt so dead.

He could feel her, the warmth of her hands and the blush of her cheeks. She was so close he could touch her, and all he wanted, all he needed, was for her to touch him back.

Once or twice she'd opened her eyes, but the Healers didn't believe him.

Between Draco and Harry, they'd gotten her the most lavish private room. She would be pissed about it, and complain how it was a waste of money, but he'd accept that. She could rant and rave, about how they could have donated it to a charity or opted for a cheaper room, or neither, or both -- 

At least she'd be awake.

Draco brushed some hair from her forehead, as an excuse to touch her. He felt uncomfortable, touching her without her being able to say much about it. He held her hand, but he resisted anything as intimate as a kiss.

But he let his hand slip, from her forehead to her cheek, where he thumbed the plush of her. She'd always get so mad at him when he'd pinch it. It was her fault, for having such pinchable cheeks.

And this was how he spent what time he had spare. In silence, beside her, like a lost dog who waited by their owner's grave.

But she wasn't dead.

She wasn't.

The door cracked open, and Draco saw Neville peak in. He frowned, as he resisted the urge to tell the boy to fuck off. He'd been at St. Mungo's, to assist with the preparation of the Queen of the Night.

It was a flower that ran in short supply, for how strong it was. Voldemort had destroyed massive crops of it, they discovered, in the wake of the war the previous year.

He'd set himself up for the Inferi, which were put to rest by the juice of the flower. It was respite for the hopeless, and a means by which to banish the dark. 

Neville, as it happened, had harvested a large amount of it, months ago. It acted as the key ingredient to the ailments that afflicted the Pure-bloods.

The Inferi hadn't approached him, or gone near him. One bone fragment had remained, lodged into the wall of the Shrieking Shack after they'd scrambled to follow their master.

The bone rolled away from Neville, or so they said. And when he checked his robes, they found the preserved flower, which caused the bone to pitch white again, inert.

Harry had told him about it, one time while they sat in silence beside Hermione.

Draco raised a brow, an unspoken question.

"They said you refused the cure -- "

"Someone else needs it more."

"No, actually," Neville exhaled, as he entered the room. He gave Hermione a sad look, and Draco wanted to throttle him. "You need it."

Draco looked at the vial of white liquid, and his lip curled. It looked like milk threaded with gold. Like marble that had formed around an ore vein.

"Everyone else has had it," Neville came over, to push the vial into Draco's hand. "And you're pretty shite at glamour charms." He gestured to the black pockmarks that had peppered Draco's face since the wedding.

He didn't bother to hide them anymore, his vanity lost on him. Draco grimaced, his eyes narrowed up at Neville. "I liked you better when you were a bumbling idiot."

"Drink the potion, Malfoy," Neville flexed his brows, a gnash to his teeth. "_She'd_ want you to."

Draco parted his lips, but Neville was already gone. He'd not even had the Gryffindor bravery to stand his ground, or to endure Draco's retort.

For the best; he didn't have one.

Instead he had a vial of milky white with a thread of gold, that spread when he shifted it in hand.

And he looked at her, over and over.

For longer than he knew.

The Healers believed she was a lost cause. He wanted to correct them, that he was the only lost cause. But it had been twenty-four days...

This was it.

He exhaled, his head dropped back against the plush arm chair. The room smelled of flowers and books, and too much like her. Eventually this would have to end.

Someone else needed the room.

And then...

Draco didn't want to think about it.

Instead, he slung back the potion, which tasted of caramel and fire. He hissed through the bite of it, as it tore through his chest. He felt it, the darkness pool in his stomach and bloom in his chest, like an exorcism long overdue.

Through his clenched teeth and narrowed eyes, he saw her move. Not much, not really at all, but her hair had been behind her ear, hadn't it?

He reached out to her, to cup her cheek.

"Draco?"

That was Mr. Granger, his head appeared between the cracked open door and the wall.

"The Healers need a minute with her..." Mr. Granger said, crisp. "It's time."

"Tell them to wait," Draco snapped.

Mrs. Granger touched her husband's arm, as she looked over Draco. "You can come back, once they're done."

Once they were done...

This was it.

Wasn't it?

Draco stood up, as he looked over her. He paused, to catch her cheek in the flat of his hand and to bend down.

"You can wake up now," he said for the hundredth time. He kissed her once, simply, and hoped the caramel and fire could at least follow her to wherever she was going next.

And she stirred. He felt it this time, as her cheek pressed into his palm. He almost threw up, terrified, as he grabbed either side of her face.

"Hermione?"

"Back to that, are we," she said, groggily, tears down her cheeks. "_Draco_."

He blinked, blind, unsure if this was psychosis or something even worse. He swallowed so hard his throat cramped, as he dropped to his knees beside her bed.

"It's you, isn't it?" She said, cautious.

And he withdrew his hands, furious they had been ruined for her. "I said I love you."

"What?" She said, her throat too dry to speak.

"I got drunk one night with Blaise, in Hogsmeade, and I sent that message... That I loved you."

Hermione made a face, and he wanted to kiss her, but withheld. "Why?"

Draco stood back, like a crazed man as he paced. He felt his stomach drop, as he turned, wand out. She flinched and he ignored it, as he cast a Patronus.

It was the one thing that he couldn't fake; the one thing he'd learned while conversing with the Order.

It wasn't as explosive or grand as one could make the spell; rather, it was liquid, warm and light, as he thrived in this moment, her wide brown eyes focused on him. He needed her to know.

The lioness made of white and light prowled beside him, and he felt his heart beat too fast in his chest.

And she grabbed for him, and he went to her.

He felt alive again.

"He can't keep -- " the Head Healer barked, though the room was on fire with warmth and ethereal glitter. The lioness lowered herself, curved around them, as if she could protect this moment.

But Draco was too busy, poured into Hermione's arms, his lips against hers. They broke apart for a moment, enough to knock their noses together and press their foreheads close.

"You lied," Draco whispered.

"About?" Hermione exhaled, her eyelashes heavy with tears.

"This would be a _third_ chance. I was only ever meant to have one."

"It's in my nature to forgive," Hermione smiled, deeply. "If someone truly means it."

And he held her close, while voices spiralled around them. He should pay attention, but he couldn't. Not as he heard her soft voice, against his throat.

"Forever?"

He nodded, arms wrapped tighter.

He didn't deserve one chance, let alone this one now. And so he remained by her side, even as Healers pressed into the room, to check her over and assess her.

He'd wait forever, as he had before.

As he always would.


	47. the heart drums on.

_ **January 2nd, 1999.** _

"We don't have to go back, you know."

"Draco, you know me better than that." Hermione squinted up through the foggy January morning. All the heat of their fellow students mingled with the heat of their own breath, as they stood together on Kings Cross Station. She tapped some snow off of his shoulder, and he caught her wrist. Her sweater disguised the thick marks down her forearms, which she'd gouged to weaponize her blood against the Inferi.

She didn't much like how they looked before, and the feeling was worse now.

"I thought I may be able to tempt you," he ran his fingers beneath her chin as if to coax her towards him.

She resisted, and instead paced over to Luna and Ginny. He followed, as always, though he looked bored more than anything else. They seemed immersed in their own conversation, about something Hermione couldn't puzzle together. She watched their mouths moved, but they sounded distant, unreal, and she had to shake her head a few times to recover.

"As I said -- "

"I'm fine," Hermione snapped, to shoot Draco a serious look. "I spent more than enough time at St. Mungo's."

"You don't have to stay at the hospital, you could stay with me," he sagged, his shoulders dropped and his bottom lip stuck out at an angle.

"Still trying to make Hermione drop out?" Ginny scoffed, as she rounded on the pair.

"Still _failing_ at it, you mean," Hermione crossed her arms.

"There's no rush, Hermione," Luna patted her on the forearm, which made her cross them tighter. "Surviving the Veil is unheard of; there's no telling how out of sorts you'll be."

"Luna," Ginny said, a warning in her tone. "Let's not."

"Oh, right," her cheeks flushed, a rarity on the pale girl's features.

"I need to catch up on essays, I missed so much," Hermione waved a hand as if she'd not defied death only a month ago. She didn't think about it at all, as little as possible. She was afraid hands had chased her out, ready to draw her back in. They touched at her neck and behind her eyes, like a force out to right the balance of nature.

"Still no news on Selwyn, either," Ginny said, in a low voice. "No body, nothing. Harry said they're looking for him, but... Doesn't have to mean anything."

Hermione thumbed her rings; there were three now, and she had taken several days to get used to them. One was her Ravenclaw ring, which she felt owed. The next was the Slytherin ring, which she kept mindful of. The third was a simple silver ring, far sleeker and more modern than the other two. It held no special powers, beyond the weight of the gift.

Draco had gotten it for her, for Christmas.

He had the Gryffindor ring, stacked with the Hufflepuff ring. It was strange to see them stacked together, two slats of bronze and gold on the skin so suited to silver. He caught her hand in his, and held it tight.

The rings had been with Voldemort, save for the Gryffindor ring. Ron had handed that over, after everything. He had left it on her bedside table, no note, nothing, but she recognized it. And he'd not mentioned it, not even as he saw it on Draco's finger.

The hospital was a blur, of her parents, of her best friends and of Draco. No one would tell her anything in there, and they allowed her no further insight than 'we're working on it'. This remained true, save for the fact they'd found Professor Ayers at the same house as herself and Emily.

Ayers had been cut across the throat, along with countless bruises and rake marks. They couldn't decide what had happened, or what the intent had been. If Voldemort had wanted her dead, she would _be_ dead. But instead, she was brutalized and left to bleed out. Hermione suspected he'd not cared if she'd lived or died, and merely wanted to leave her as a message.

She hadn't visited Hermione, and Hermione hadn't been able to visit her.

By the time she was able to walk, Ayers had returned to Hogwarts, as she'd needed to resume teaching.

Hermione focused on the bleak English countryside as they train sped towards Hogwarts. They must have gotten on, with her in tow. She hadn't recalled stepping aboard or sitting down, but both must have been true. She had her hand tucked beneath her chin, while Draco stroked circles on her thigh.

"-- stubborn about it."

"I wasn't stubborn," Draco sniped back, his handsome face twisted into a scowl.

"Oh, so, refusing to drink a cure that would save your life, that's not stubborn?"

"I was already dead," Draco settled back into his seat, the idle circles now a firm grip on Hermione's left hand.

"Very poetic," Neville chided, as he thumbed through his book on rare fungi of East India.

"When your heart dies, it can be difficult to live," Luna said, vibrant despite the bleak nature of her words.

Draco made a nasty face, as he sat further back into his seat. Much like a spring, he shot up, to leave the cabin with his bag and all.

"Can we leave all that in the holidays?" Hermione said, her tone severe.

Ginny, Neville and Luna looked between themselves, unsure what to say. And then Hermione saw the pity behind their eyes, the same pity they'd reject if they were to get it. She snuffed through her nose and got up, her thumb against her Ravenclaw ring. A thread formed, as it followed the same path Draco had stalked. She waved at them, as she left her bag behind and ducked out of the cabin.

She followed the line of cabins, though she paused to stare down a discarded Daily Prophet. One article spoke of Snape, and how he'd been formally pardoned after several weeks of in-depth trials. She frowned at that, but she frowned even harder when saw the worst title she'd ever read.

_Golden Girl (with) Good Grades Graduates (from) Goody-Two-Shoes to Greatest Garroter..? _by Calliope Cuette.

Hermione almost threw up on instinct, as that awful Calliope Cuette had written it. She had ditched her naming convention of all C's for G's, and Hermione nearly walked away to follow the silver thread --

And then she saw her name.

_Hermione Granger had come under great debate, as the Wizarding world splits down the middle. The girl, known for her assistance in the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in May 1998, was found alongside a teacher and fellow student in late December. One was injured while the other was dead altogether. The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice claims that these crimes were horrendously actioned by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself! But isn't that a convenient cover, to conceal the culprit and convince the community of the capricious crimes being carried out by a corpse?_

_Certainly seems so!_

_One has to wonder if Ms. Granger didn't take down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to pave the way for an anti-Pure-blood advance, as revenge for the crimes committed against her own kind. While one was half-blooded, the other was Pure-blooded -- the Half-blood perhaps was injured, to beat her into submission, while the Pure-blood was seen as impossible to impress upon and in this was extinguished. Miss Emily Fawley was known as a king and loving girl, who was killed in the prime of her life. Professor Catherine Ayers is a renowned Half-blood witch, who assisted on the Ministry's Muggle-Born Registration Commission -- perhaps this was why Ms. Granger targeted her?_

_One Dolores Umbridge contacted the Prophet, to assert that Ms. Granger was ill-tempered and cruel. She was a poor student, who forced teachers' to give her glowing reports and good grades, for fear of their lives. She claims that Ms. Granger orchestrated several assassination attempts against her during her time at Hogwarts, and has to attend therapy on a regular basis because of it. Additionally, our own Rita Skeeter, a wonderful and sweet woman, turns to a blubbering mess when the girl is mentioned. All she can seem to say is 'please put the jar down'. Was it acid, or poison? _

_One has to wonder if Professor Ayers gave Ms. Granger a real grade and -- _

Hermione's eyes and brain hurt in tandem, as she tried to pick apart Calliope's point.

Essentially, a Muggleborn devout in killing Pure-bloods. She scrunched up the paper, and set it alight. She pressed on, through the train, and did her best to keep her head level.

Emily's death was a tragedy, and she felt deeply for her family. But beyond that, she'd had no part in what happened to Ayers or Draco. She tried not to think about either, though she'd felt the ridges of a scar against Draco's chest when they'd kissed. He'd kept distant from her, given she'd been in the Janus Thickery Ward until last night. She'd left all her belongings at Hogwarts, and she'd had no intention of leaving Hogwarts.

She'd see this Eighth year through, even if it killed her.

(Again?)

The thread splashed against a dark oak door, which made her frown. She had never noticed the door before, as the only thing that suggested it was a door at all was the darkness where hinges should be. She pressed at the panel, and it popped. It reminded her of those cupboards that didn't have handles, and instead, you had to press on them to make the mechanism pop them open.

And her jaw dropped.

Rather than a small closet, as she expected, it was a sizable room. It was stacked with cases and crates, which she assumed were supplies for the school. She walked down several wooden steps and looked back up at the door with the same wonder as always. Magic could be so cruel and hurtful, but then there were moments like this, where she felt eleven again.

The thread continued, and she followed.

All the way to a sleek leg, dressed in deep black slacks.

"Draco," Hermione said, in a weary voice.

"I can't do this."

Hermione crouched beside him and steadied herself with one hand flat on the floor. It was a hard carpet like one would have in a dentist's office.

"Once we stop at Hogsmeade, I'm just... I'm going to," Draco hiccuped, and buried his face into his arms. He scrunched smaller, knees to his forehead, arms wrapped around his shins.

"You don't have to," Hermione knelt forward, to wrap her arms around him.

"This is so stupid," he grit his teeth, tears still in his voice. "Crying, over going to school."

"It's not stupid," Hermione smoothed her hand over his head and pressed a kiss to his temple. "And I doubt that's what's upsetting you..."

He drew back at that, to look her in the eye. 

"It's six more months, and we're out," Hermione framed his cheeks in her hands, and he kept her gaze. "I'll be with you the whole time."

Draco pulled her close, as he tended to do. When they'd first been together, he'd been so cautious and unsure. And that remained, in how his fingers would skirt her curves, or how he'd pause to check her face. But the permission had extended, and his comfort grew with each hug. She rested in his lap, cradled in his arms.

"What is this?"

"Storage extension," Draco had his face buried in her neck, while his breathing jittered against her pulse. "I looked into it, in Sixth year."

Hermione didn't need to ask why.

"How'd you find it?" Draco asked, suspicion in his voice.

"You had the mating rituals book with you."

Draco sat back, to lean his head against the metal wall of the train. "That damn book."

"You need to stop carrying it with you everywhere if you don't want to be found," Hermione said, in the swottiest voice she'd ever used.

"It's cheating, you realize."

"I like knowing where you are," she said, her tone more fragile than she liked. "Six more months, then we're officially _out,_" she punctuated, unsure what to call it.

"We could be out now -- "

"That wouldn't be _officially_," Hermione dismissed, as she looked over his face. He didn't have the black marks anymore, though the dark circles remained. His hair had grown, though she'd been unresponsive most of December. And then when she woke up, she was lost in the mess that had happened in her absence. But classes went on, and life couldn't wait for you to catch your breath.

"You're stressed about all the essays you missed, aren't you," Draco cooed.

Hermione rolled her eyes, her cheeks tinted red.

"Leave it to you to be hospitalized, and terrified about missing assignments."

"Well, if the professors had sent me my missed classwork as I requested there'd be no issue."

Draco grabbed her jaw with his index finger and thumb, to pull her close enough to kiss. His tears had stopped once she'd landed in his lap, and she was thankful. They hadn't been _alone_ since... November 24th, when he'd put his drunken mother together in Hogsmeade. The date slapped her in the face, given how she'd not thought about their distance.

She'd been so stressed about finding him again, she'd not had time to miss him.

Though that stopped altogether, as he dragged her knee around so she was straddled in his lap. She felt her breathing still, as she stared down at him, his hair stress-worried and his lips wet.

"I love you," she blurted out, her eyes too wide.

Draco blinked like she'd spoken another language.

"You said, you love me, back in November, and I didn't say it back, I don't think I could have, then, but -- I do, love you, I do," she dug her fingers into the silk of his shirt, as she tried to strengthen her point. "I don't know if we feel the same about one another, I don't know if it's enough, for me to say it, but I do, and I mean it. I was so scared, when you vanished, and then you... When he turned up, as you -- "

"Please don't," Draco shook his head, to bunch her hair into his grip.

"I should have known it wasn't real, and I failed Emily, and I fucked up and -- " Hermione exhaled a panicked breath. "I thought I'd never get to say it, and you'd go on, thinking I don't love you when I do, and I have, and I still do, I love you, I do."

They hadn't spoken much, about his time kidnapped, or what had happened to her. He hadn't asked, and neither had she. They ignored it, for the sake of their own sanity. But the words poured out of her like poison, in the freedom of this empty storage room.

"I love you too," he said, his throat strained. "I was dead without you."

"You don't mean that," Hermione shook her head.

"Hermione," Draco caught one of her hands between his, to kiss along her fingertips. "I know what I mean, don't speak for me."

Hermione's lips quirked, though she shouldn't smile at such a sentence. Instead, she leaned back into the kiss, a familiar place of warmth and light. They'd been trapped in St. Mungo's until last night, and a procession of Healers hardly made for a sensual atmosphere.

(Not that their spot between crates and trunks was much better.)

...

"I'm not your House Elf," Ginny scoffed, as she handed Hermione back her satchel.

"Sorry," Hermione mumbled, her face deep red.

Ginny shot Draco a nasty look, to which he looked bored.

Hogsmeade station felt more alive than before. There were more students than last semester, and Hermione wondered if they'd managed to find more of their Muggleborn students again. They'd missed the first half of the year, but it was better to get them back into classes than to make everyone had to stay back a year.

Hermione didn't envy the Hogwarts staff, who'd have to piece together curriculums for such a mixture of students.

The cart ride up to Hogwarts was warm and welcome, though Hermione made a point not to look Draco in the eye. He looked far too smug, even if it was by her own hand. They'd spent the majority of their train trip in that sparse room, though she tried not to think of the specific shapes of it. His hand, warm on her inner thighs, and her hand, cautious and curious against him.

And she fussed on the spot, her mass of hair drooped over her face as she felt her cheeks heat.

She'd missed him, in many ways.

...

At first, Hermione noticed how much busier the Great Hall seemed. Then, she noticed how there was more attention on her than usual. She thought of the article, that painted her as a killer and winced. She supposed she was a killer, in a sense, but not in the way they all thought. She didn't bother to focus on it, not as she listened to Dean and Neville banter about their holidays. Neville seemed especially excited, given he'd gone on a date with Hannah Abbott.

The teacher's table made her stomach flip, as she saw Professor Ayers next to Professor Snape, no extra frills -- just, Snape.

He looked sullen, and Ayers looked...

Hermione stared, unsure what to call it. She still had a slash across her throat, but it had turned pink. She still had a light to her smile and spoke too much with her hands. Hermione had heard what had happened to her, and she'd expected the woman to be battered and miserable. Instead, she looked more alive than ever, and Hermione wished she knew why.

Perhaps she was just grateful to be alive; or perhaps she'd finally had some closure on Selwyn, given her ex-fiance wasn't parading around.

The walk back to the Eighth year dorms felt empty, as she saw Bethany cuddled next to Pansy and Daphne. Draco had her hand in his, though he was in talks with Blaise and Theo, about the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Hogwarts shimmered in the evening air, and Hermione caught sight of a ghostly white figure along the Forbidden Forest perimeter. Their long blonde hair and pale skin made her stomach flip, until she saw them sprint away on all fours.

_Ivana._

Hermione leaned into Draco, her face buried in his bicep. And he looped her closer, his arm hooked around her shoulders, though he toyed with the peach fuzz of her cheek as they approached their dormitory.

She had survived the first six months of Hogwarts; she had uncovered a duality to Horcruxes, fought Inferi, stabbed her boyfriend to save his life and fallen in love with Draco Malfoy.

This was a new year, after all. She had to leave it all behind, and only take the good with her. The lessons would remain, etched into her skin. She examined her Gryffindor nails, painted in alternated colors by Ginny at dinner. They flashed gold and scarlet in the dim light of the greenhouse, and the glittering skeletal Glimmertree, which sprawled towards the glass ceiling.

As she kissed Draco good night, she entered her dorm. Emily's bed had been made, and all her things were gone. That spot in the room looked miserable and empty, and Hermione watched Bethany curl up on her friend's empty bed.

Only six months to go.

_"Date tomorrow, Granger."_

Hermione smiled at the Ravenclaw band, which bore Draco's message.

_"If you behave." _She willed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Find A Way To Live On!
> 
> Check out the series below to find the next installment!


	48. epilogue..?

_ **January 2nd, 1999.** _

A crash in the dark sent Hermione into a blind panic. She scratched beneath her pillow, to dig out her wand. Sleep clung to her eyes, and she felt stupid for thinking she'd be able to sleep at all. Her mind fled in every awful direction imaginable, though she could see no one beyond the curtain. They were thin and light, so it was easy to peer through them...

And then she saw a nose snuffle around the edge of her curtain, as a great black dog poked its face into her bed.

"Are you serious?"

The dog barked.

"Don't you -- don't sass me," Hermione shoved his snout, as she clambered out of her bed. Pansy and Daphne had their beds pushed together still, while Bethany had fallen asleep in Emily's bed. Hermione felt her stomach drop, though she didn't linger on it. She hadn't a chance to, not as she watched Sirius trot towards the door.

She followed with her wand still held in front of her, her brows furrowed.

And in the dorms above were Snape, Ayers and Sirius, accompanied by a weary Malfoy flanked by Ron and Harry. They looked more alert as if they'd had a warning about this.

"It's the start of the semester," Hermione huffed, as she tied her bathrobe tighter. She narrowed her gaze between Ayers and Snape, and then to Sirius who'd turned back into his human form. "We couldn't have done this _last_ week?"

"You'd been awake for... What, a day at that point?" Sirius waved a hand at her. "Pleased to see you back on your feet, by the way."

Hermione gave a withering smile to the dark-haired man, who grinned his handsome grin. As if he'd not snuck into her dorms in the dead of night when he was twice her age and double her size. Then again, it was Sirius, she'd be hardly surprised to find out if he'd made a habit of delving into the girls' dorms after hours in his youth.

"We needed to talk, and Hogwarts is the safest place to do that," Ayers interrupted, her hand held out towards Hermione.

She winced back, away from the woman. It was a reflex if people tried to touch her. She'd not been able to beat it, and the redhead thought better of her extended hand.

"I know, all things considered..." She looked to the entrance of the Eighth year dorms, which highlighted the slashed scar across her throat.

Hermione felt Draco slip over to her, to wrap his arms around her and rest his cheek against her neck. He rocked, slowly, softly, and she patted his cheek. He had the rings, and he was warm and smelled much like himself. She hated how she'd have to double-down and examine everyone who came close to her, but she was on edge.

She'd trusted Draco, and...

She felt Draco tighten his grip on her as if he'd gleaned those thoughts, of his face at Azkaban, a morbid mask to draw her to a trap.

"Yes, well, there's much to discuss," Ayers waved a hand, and the group set off for Hogsmeade. Hermione felt the raw heat through her chest, as she didn't _want_ answers, she didn't want to know anything. For once, she wanted to sleep and to focus on school. And for once, she wasn't allowed that luxury, as she'd not had a chance to debrief from her encounter with Voldemort in Selwyn's abandoned home. She knew half-truths and parts of the events, but most of all she remembered how he'd carved a hole into Draco's chest.

At least his complexion had cleared up, no dark marks pocked onto his face.

"So they're letting you teach still? Harry asked in a tense voice.

"So it seems." Snape straightened his posture, as much as his hunch would allow.

"Really, no one else could do it?" Ron asked, in a stage whisper that was meant to make Hermione laugh. But she couldn't not as Snape shot a nasty look back at them.

"There are conditions," he strained his chin, which emphasized how thin he'd become.

"Such as..?" Harry asked, nonchalant.

Snape remained silent.

Hermione and Draco were behind them, dressed in robes and slippers. She couldn't disguise her annoyance, not as they turned a corner and began towards the Shrieking Shack. Her stomach flipped, over and over, and if it weren't for Sirius in his Animagi form or the way that Ron glared at herself and Draco, she'd be skeptical.

But she couldn't live in fear; she simply _couldn't_.

She'd cast a small warming charm around herself and Draco, which he cuddled into. His arm rested around her shoulders, as he kept her close in the dismal January evening. It was late, perhaps after midnight, but Hermione didn't worry about the specifics of time. She'd lost weeks, it hurt to think about it too much.

"When I said, date tomorrow," Draco drawled beside her ear, in that awful way he would when he wanted to see her jump. "I hadn't meant so immediately."

"Suck it up Malfoy, don't you love sulking around in the dark?" Ron shot back, though he had half as much venom as normal.

"Oh Weasley, don't you know that all fun things in life happen in the dark." Draco couldn't stop the smirk that spread across his face, though Hermione saw his cheeks strain. He winked down at her, and she broke into a giggle she'd not been able to catch.

And it almost felt normal again.

Like she'd not died.

The Shrieking Shack looked worse than Hermione remembered. There were huge gashes in the walls and half the windows were shattered. The doors, which had been fixed to the spot, now laid strewn across the ground. She stepped over one abject piece of wood, which she couldn't place. It could have been a chair, or a table, or nothing at all.

Draco swatted a path into the glass, which allowed Hermione to step without the crackle of glass. The torn curtains blew in the soft January breeze, and it was far too cold.

As Ayers and Snape set about mending the windows and the doors, Hermione gathered Ron and Harry up into a hug. She'd seen them in passing at St. Mungo's, but it was difficult to hug people when you were bed-bound. She nestled into the crook of Harry's neck, unsure where his weight and breadth had come from. He'd become more strapping in his time as an Auror, as he lost what little gangliness he'd had. The same could be said of Ron, who looked slimmer in the face and more mature.

They were still teenagers, she thought with unsettled nerves.

They're fucking _kids_.

Draco caught each of their hands, to shake them as some test of formality. Harry and Draco shook with a competitive edge, though Harry lacked the social graces to win. Ron, however, tried to crush Draco's hand. The pair grit their teeth and drew back to wince when the other wasn't looking.

"Let's see, let's see," Sirius slapped his hands together, as he rubbed at them for warmth. A spark formed, and then the fireplace caught alight. He smiled, pleased with himself as he looked around like an excited child.

"Yes, thank you Sirius," Ayers smiled, as she waved her hands at the stairs. A few fallen planks and the banister reformed, so the second floor was accessible again.

"So, what..." Hermione waved a hand, around the room, as if something was meant to happen. "Where to we start?"

"Well, where to begin," Ayers sat cross-legged by the fire, with Sirius's head in her lap. Snape sat in an armchair, with the exposed springs in perpetual motion from an impossible draft. Harry and Ron took the couch, while Hermione sat on Draco's lap.

(She hadn't much say in the matter, he'd tugged her there.)

"What happened to you, let's start there."

Draco made a sound from the back of his throat. She realized he was using her a shield, emotionally and otherwise. His face was buried into her hair, and his mouth was pressed against her neck. It'd be quite pleasant were it not for the company of Snape and Ron, who looked like they were about to commit a murder for different reasons.

"What happened to me?" Ayers asked, a tip to her head. "Nothing I care to repeat. I'm sure Draco can agree -- "

"No," Hermione waved a hand. "I understand, you don't want to talk about... _About_ the darker elements, I understand, but you were missing for a week. Both of you," she tapped the arm around her waist, as Draco tried to burrow beneath her robe.

"It's as you expected," Snape waved a hand, loose and indifferent. "He wished to relocate your intelligence to his side, to deprive the Order of your deductive reasoning. Even if you weren't an asset to _him_, you were exploitable."

Hermione felt ill, and wished she'd told Sirius to sod off when he'd turned up in her dorm.

"One moment," Snape pushed up, and disappeared upstairs. She stared at Ayers and the others as if she expected them to object. He came back in a few minutes, with a book in hand.

The same book Lucius had; the same one that Voldemort had stolen from her that night in Draco's room. He showed it to Hermione, though yanked it back before she could take it from him.

"This book has translocation magic on it; that is, it's a -- a form of permission, a bridge between the two people who had either copy." Snape looked at it, though it remained shut. "It responds to Draco, and only Draco."

Draco tightened his grip on her.

"Which means there's a second book out there, which _he_ may have."

"He..." Hermione said, her voice empty. "He, who?"

Snape's lips twitched at the corners, in a cruel way.

"I killed him," Hermione snapped, as she struggled to stand up.

"Did you?" Snape hummed, as he tossed the book onto the table beside her. "We don't know who was inside Draco, nor who kidnapped them. It could have been Voldemort, or someone acting on his behalf. Consider Pettigrew, Bellatrix, Crouch... He's had people act on his behalf in the past," he cocked a brow, to look down at her over the ridge of his nose. "Perhaps it was Selwyn inside Draco -- we haven't got Selwyn's body, we don't know -- "

"What about the staff?"

The room went silent.

"Staff..?" Ayers said, her voice wary.

"There wasn't any staff Hermione," Ron said, with the same caution he'd have in his voice when Hermione seemed on the verge of shouting. "Staves are... Wizards don't really _use _staves anymore, do they?"

"No," Sirius shook his head, and sat up. Ayers kept her hand in his, and Hermione their interlocked fingers in the firelight. "Staves are more archaic, some families have them for generations, but they're ornamental, or ceremonial."

"He had a staff," Hermione repeated, her brow furrowed. "And a briefcase."

The room was still again, and she could hear the sound of curtains whipping around upstairs. She hadn't had a chance to tell anyone what had happened, just the specific events of how she'd used the knife and ended up in a fog. She remained still against Draco, unsure if the world around her had stopped or if it was her imagination.

"What sort of staff?" Snape asked, his voice dry.

"It was blackthorn, with a little... Imagine a crystal ball, but with blood inside," Hermione pinched her lips, as she tried not to be ill at the memory. "And, a little red stone -- I think, the Resurrection Stone..."

The silence returned, as everyone fixed their attention onto Hermione. But she had nothing to say, nothing of worth. Blackthorn wood was associated with the inevitability of death and had ties to the Dark Arts, but staves seemed to have more prestige than a wand. One didn't simply _make_ a staff. She chewed at her thumbnail until Draco caught her wrist, to stop her anxious gnawing.

"I'd wager that staff is what's given him control of the Inferi," Sirius pointed as if it weren't obvious.

"He had one at the wedding, it was all purple and red," Harry made a face, as if he were trying to remember the specifics.

"Yes, well, that's... That means he's..." Ayers's eyes widened, as she bundled her legs towards her chest. "Why won't he just die."

"I've been asking that for years," Harry muttered, as he slumped back into the couch.

The loungeroom of the Shrieking Shack felt so much less like a home than usual. The moonlight poured through the cracks in the walls, and the curtains continued to dance in the breeze. Hermione adjusted herself before she climbed out of Draco's lap. He followed without question, as she walked to the foot of the stairs. 

"Has anyone looked upstairs?" She asked, as she tossed a curious look between the others in the room.

"Not much to see," Sirius shrugged, as he pushed himself up. He helped Ayers up, who wobbled to her feet beside him. She smiled, bright red and brilliant as ever. Even with the scars across her throat, and the smaller ones over her hands. Hermione wondered if she had worse, hidden away, but that was too invasive.

Hermione cast a glance upward and stepped away.

"It's late," Snape said, with a twist of his wrist. He gathered his robes, to step towards the exit.

"Hold on," Hermione cut in, her hands raised. "Is there nothing else to go on? What about you, your time here, for... What was it, seven months?"

Snape arched a brow at her.

"Didn't you learn anything?" The words popped out before she had a chance to think them through.

"Being bed-bound for seven months gave me perspective," he said, his voice as distant as before. "Though perhaps not in the ways you imagine."

"But you tried to kill Ayers, didn't you," Hermione took a step towards him. "You tried and failed -- "

"And?"

Hermione didn't have an answer for that.

"It's okay, Hermione," Ayers reached out for Hermione but withdrew her hand before she made contact. Instead, she worried them into her oversized robes, which were thicker to protect from the weather outside. "I was meant to die, so..."

"So I could die," Harry had stood, his hands clasped by his sides. "I'd wager the only person in here who isn't meant to be dead is Ron."

"Hey, I mean, I almost died, from that poison Malfoy sent me Sixth year," Ron got up, his arms crossed over his chest.

"My point being," Harry waved a hand, to stop Ron before he started on Draco. "A lot happened, before the war, after it... But, I trust you all, and we all want the same thing."

Snape and Sirius glared one another down, while Ron and Draco had their own pointed exchange.

"For this to be over," Harry added, as if by necessity.

"I'd love for this to be over," Ayers agreed, sheepish. Her eyes raked over Snape before she fixed her attention to the floor between them. There were loose planks all over the house, which unsettled Hermione.

"We should go through this place," Hermione said, her tone sharp. "Not tonight, but we need to pull it apart, see if there's anything. If Voldemort was here for seven months, there's bound to be something here. And Selwyn's house -- "

"We already searched that," Snape cut in.

"Then we search the house again. There's crucial pieces missing," Hermione stumbled on the spot. "_Severus_."

The same eerie silence overtook the room, as each of them reacted with the same distaste they'd had for the name _Voldemort_ before his name became a habit. Snape was the least affected, as he stared down at her, his face bland. And he turned, to leave, no words, just the rhythmic smack of his heel against the planks of wood.

"I don't like him having that book," Hermione said, her voice sharp.

"He's the best person to have it," Ayers said, her voice meek. "He's the only one to lie to Voldemort with any success..."

"You think that's still true, now?" Hermione pivoted, to arch her brow at Ayers.

"I do," she crossed her arms over her chest. "We have plenty to think about now, even without the book..." she looked up to Sirius, who seemed lost in her face.

"I'm glad you're okay," Hermione smiled, her expression wearied as she looked over the woman. She looked much the same as she had, if not a little thinner and tired around her eyes. The scars flickered a dark pink, though she couldn't linger on them for long. Everyone had their scars, physical and otherwise. 

Ayers pulled her into a hug and she allowed it. The goodbyes began, as Sirius left with Harry and Ron, as he'd taken to crashing on their couch. The fireplace made the trip easy, through the half-there fireplace. Ron had hugged her, as did Sirius and Harry, but Ron's hugs always clung to her in a different way.

Hermione caught the shape of a dark figure by the door, but her heart settled when she realized it was Snape, fixed in place as he stared them down.

"Back to school," Ayers exhaled through grit teeth.

"Actually," Draco tongued the corner of his mouth, his hand curled around Hermione's waist. "I'm too tired to walk back -- my house is only a few minutes away."

Ayers shot him a bored look, though her lips curled. She raised her hands, to flap them at the pair. If she spoke, it was too quick to be deciphered, even for Hermione's impeccable ears. She rushed out the door and down the steps, as Snape glided after her much like a shadow.

"Oh, that's cruel, to make her walk back to school with Snape."

"Don't you mean _Severus_?" Draco countered, his head dipped low and his smirk fixed across his lips. It didn't hide the pang of jealousy behind his tone, nor the way his eyes flashed in the moonlight.

"I hardly see why I should have to call him _Professor _outside of school," Hermione puffed out her chest, her head lifted.

"And Snape is too..?"

"I feel like it's rude, to call him by his last name -- I'm trying to be more..."

"On friendly terms with Snape?" Draco exhaled, his tongue raked across his teeth. "I get it -- go to him, if you feel so tenderly for him."

"Shut up," Hermione scoffed, though she had to laugh.

"Oh, now you're telling me to shut up," Draco gripped the apex of his chest, into the rich green silk of his pajamas. "I remember when you were a nice girl."

"I've never been _nice_," Hermione sniped back, as she leaned up to nip his throat. She rushed towards the door and down the steps, with Draco in hot pursuit. She remembered the path back to his house, two streets over, a hard left, and then -- 

His hands found the space between her underarms and ribs, as he snatched her back against him. It was January still, too cold to be outside for long. The path between Hogsmeade and Hogwarts had been covered in branches, with a magically buffed path to keep them safe. The streets of Hogsmeade had the ghost of winter draped across it, in glossy white sheets and gentle slopes.

And then she was hot, beyond heat, as Draco pressed her against a stonework wall. It was a robe store if she could recall correctly, but urban geography could take a backseat to the heat of his tongue against hers. She saw stars in her eyes like flecks of snow, as he pressed a hand to her throat, to dance his fingers against her pulse. She keened into it, and by extension, into him. But he was too close and too tall for her to control the pace, as he let his hand slide beneath her robes, the weight of his hand against her breast. His other hand had taken to her hip, to grind her against him, until she was sure he was a masochist.

"Draco," she huffed, and he moaned, and she huffed again. "We can't, not here -- "

"Oh, it's the middle of the night."

"It's freezing," she corrected, as she wriggled to get free. That drew another eager sound from him, as he grabbed a handful of her arse. "_Draco_."

His grip slackened, begrudgingly, and they managed to close the gap between this secluded Hogsmeade alleyway and his home.

(One of twelve, she remembered.)

And then she didn't remember much of anything, as Draco pressed her into the black oak door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thank you for reading and supporting the story! This was a little bit of a mess, in all honesty, but it was a happy mess. Thank you for being with me through my first Dramione story, and my first long-form Harry Potter story!
> 
> In case you missed it, there is a sequel/continuation of the series called [Find A Way To Let Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21778960/chapters/51966286), which picks up right after this leaves off! I made the decision to split the stories, as I consider Find A Way To Live On a rather happy singular piece of work, but I love Hermione & Draco, as well as the universe, so I wanted to continue the story! There is no requirement to continue reading if you're happy with the way FAWTLO ended, and I wanted to let it be... But then there were plenty of plot aspects I'd not addressed yet, plus a lot of lingering mysteries. I would appreciate you checking it out!
> 
> I've included Chapter One below, as a treat.


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